


Remnant

by queenundisputed



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenundisputed/pseuds/queenundisputed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's always there, and she keeps dreaming of drowning. (a post-Neverland fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When he walks in, he tosses her a grin before taking up half of the station with his insufferable presence. 

“Where have you been?” she asks, and she knows damn well he can hear the accusation in her voice. 

“Did you miss me, darling? Surely we haven’t been apart for all that long,” he says.

“I’m serious,” she says, uncapping an ink pen viciously. Not that she’d actually stab him with a pen, but it’s satisfying to think about it nevertheless. 

He sighs. “On board my ship, love. Where else?”

She grinds her teeth. He thinks this cat-and-mouse routine is funny, but she’s been seeing red since this morning. It’s her kid they’re talking about after all. It’s just—well, she’s going to play. She always does.

“Oh really? Funny because I was down by the docks this morning, and you were nowhere to be found.” She’s thinking about stabbing him with her pen again so she punctuates her statement with a sharp jab of pen to paper; a period to illustrate that she means business. 

He doesn’t buy it, she can tell, but he does give her pen a speculative glance before he says: “Perhaps you weren’t looking hard enough, Swan.”

“Uh huh,” Emma replies, and switches tactics on him just to see if she can make him squirm. “The school principle called earlier. Want to know what she had to say?”

“Henry causing trouble? You know, you should take a firmer hand with the young lad.” He’s full blown smirking at her now. Asshole. But there’s that little gleam in his eye that says that they both know that she knows he’s lying. Super power and all. 

Neal had had a similar look when he was messing with her before—

Well. She doesn’t want to compare Neal and Killian anyway. That way only led to danger. 

So she takes a deep breath to collect her thoughts and gives him her best glare in return. “And you can’t just sign him out of school, Killian!” 

“I think you’ll find that I did no such thing.”

“And we both know you’re lying.”

“Now, Emma, did this lovely woman—the principal, did you say?—actually say that I signed your boy out of school for the day to go adventuring—which is, I might add, a far better character building exercise than sitting behind a desk all day—hmm?”

“No, but—”

“Ah! Then you have only speculation and no proof, darling.”

“Seriously, Killian? That’s your argument? This has your finger prints all over it.” She pauses for a split second, looking at his hand. “Your hook prints too probably.”

He chuckles and holds his hook out into the light. “Your hook jokes are abysmal, you know that? At any rate, you are quite wrong.”

“You are such a terrible liar!” She’s laughing now; it’s bubbling out of her mouth like champagne, and she has nothing to stop it. Her anger slips away courtesy of the absurdity of the situation. 

He smiles at her, one of his real, honest smiles. She sees them more and more now that they have returned from Neverland. After she’d been forced to place her trust in him time and time again—with ghosts and pixies and mermaids and shadows—and he hadn’t let her down once. 

Before the moment can go any further, the phone rings, shrill and loud in the little office. She sighs, points a finger at him, and says quickly, “I’m not done with you, Mister.”

He only winks at her by way of response, and she answers the call. 

\---

She walks into the apartment that’s hers now that her parents have moved into their own place for privacy. There’s a distinct lack of mess that comes along with kids, or so she’s beginning to learn, so she knows Henry isn’t home yet. She looks at the clock on the wall and frowns. She had counted on him steering clear of her for most of the afternoon to avoid punishment, but it’s still late. He should be home by now. Worry begins to claw its way up her throat, and she still hasn’t learned how to breathe through it. 

So she counts herself lucky when the door opens, and Neal and Henry pile inside, cold air hovering around them and cheeks pink from excitement. She narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. 

Neal sees her first. “Now, Emma,” he begins. 

She holds up her hand, silencing him with her glare. “You had no right, and you know it.”

Neal sighs, turning his head so that he’s looking more at the floor than at her, and Henry looks between both his parents like the world’s ending. Suddenly, she doesn’t have the heart to scream at them. 

“Just...don’t do it again,” she says to Neal, and to Henry: “Kid, school’s important. You gotta go, alright? Even when your Dad says you don’t have to.”

It’s the best she can do, and she doesn’t know if it’s enough; both boys’ faces light up with identical grins though, and at least her status as the cool mom is still intact. She knows she’ll get an earful if Regina finds out, but Henry’s smile makes it hard to give a shit. 

“I know, Mom, but we were doing something important.”

“Uh huh,” she says. “And what was it?”

“Oh,” Henry says. “Operation Sword Fight. Top secret. Can’t tell you.” 

He takes his fingers and closes his mouth like a zip. She glares at Neal again, and he shrugs helplessly. All the men in her life are assholes, she decides, remembering how Killian had been equally unhelpful that morning. Another check in the ‘how Killian and Neal are alike’ column, and she’s back in dangerous territory again. So she distracts herself. 

“Go wash up, kid, and we’ll have dinner. If you haven’t already eaten, that is.”

Henry doesn’t answer, but he scurries toward the bathroom so she decides to take that as a no and breathes an internal sigh of relief. 

“Dinner seemed like a mom thing so I left it to you,” Neal says, heading for the door. 

“Yeah, well, thanks. I guess,” she says, following him. 

“Sorry about...this whole thing. I’m still getting used to him, you know?” He grins at her and the helpless shrug of his shoulders is back. 

She huffs a breath, but she knows exactly what he’s going through. 

“You’re forgiven. Now go away.” She closes the door on his smile. 

\---

She can see the shape of someone standing on the fire escape outside the window. She can’t make out much—just an outline—because the light from the moon is weak, but it’s enough to send a jolt of fear down her spine. She grabs her gun from its holster on the bedside table and sticks to the shadows as she moves toward the window. 

She peers out cautiously before jerking open the window and sticking her gun out with a yell of “Don’t move!” quickly following it.

She hears a chuckle in reply and curses quietly before pulling her gun back inside. She knows she won’t need it for this particular intruder. 

“Damn it, Killian.”

“As long as you’re not planning on shooting me, love, may I come in?” he asks, ducking his head down to peer through the open window at her. 

“Fine.” She waves him inside and turns away to put her gun back on the bedside table. 

When she turns back to him, he’s smiling at the baby quilt on her bed. 

“Oh shut up,” she snaps, tossing a wadded up receipt from the table at his head. 

“I didn’t utter a word!”

“I could hear you thinking from all the way over here. What do you want, anyway?” she asks. 

“Your charming company and scintillating conversation?”

“So you decided to play peeping tom from the fire escape?” She pulls back the quilt and comforter on the bed, hoping that she’ll get lucky and Killian will take the hint. It’s late, and she wants to sleep. 

He ignores her cheap shot and asks, “Did you find your man?”

“Oh yeah. Why didn’t you just tell me it was Neal and not you?” she asks.

“I did try, if you remember.”

“Yeah, I guess. Sorry for not believing you. I should have known it was Neal from the start.”

“Perhaps your ability to spot a lie is not as well honed as you led me to believe when we first met,” he says, looking like a ghost standing in the barely there light of the moon, filtering in through the window panes. 

“Mary Margaret would agree with you. She thinks my super power goes haywire sometimes too.” Emma sinks down into the mattress with a yawn, no longer caring if Killian is standing by the window or not. It’s been a long day, and she deserves some shut eye. 

“And why does she believe that?” he asks her, his voice soft and barely there like the moon beams. 

“Emotions clouding my judgement or something.” She’s sunk far enough into sleep that she lets the weapon slip right through her teeth; she only realizes what she’s done when he smiles at her, truly smiles, and nods. 

“Perhaps she’s correct. Good night, Emma.” And he’s swinging back out onto the fire escape before she has time to react. The pillow she throws, belatedly, toward the window hits nothing but air and glass and moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the sequel to my first fic. This is also not the project that I planned on writing. But my life went through a fair bit of upheaval, and the project I was working on got sidelined. Then this bunny snuggled up next to me and wouldn't leave me alone. It was writing itself every time I closed my eyes. So here it is! I'm not certain how many chapters we're in for, but I know how things play out. Fair warning, the summary doesn't lie; there will be a great deal of discussion revolving around drowning in later chapters. If this triggers you in any way, this fic is not for you. 
> 
> This chapter isn't beta'ed, but I hope to have the rest combed through by the beta I used on my last fic. In the meantime, if you see any mistakes, feel free to let me know!
> 
> This fic will also be archived on ff.net under the same title and author name.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite her frustration over her slip of the tongue, she sleeps like the dead. In what she would deem a minor miracle, she only jolts awake at the very last second. She has enough time to dress and throw together a haphazard lunch for Henry before they rush out the door. She hopes the kid doesn’t mind peanut butter and jelly for the third time this week. Dropping him off at the bus stop only minutes later, she tosses a ‘stay in school, kid!’ over her shoulder for effect, and she imagines him rolling his eyes behind her back as she stumbles into Granny’s for coffee and something disgustingly sweet to chase the sleep out of her head.

“Coffee?” Ruby chirps at her, smile pasted on her face and a coffee pot, full of steaming black liquid, in her hand. 

“You are my favorite person this morning, Ruby,” Emma says as she hunches protectively over the cup Ruby pours for her. She gulps the liquid down as fast as she can without burning her tongue--okay, maybe she burns her tongue a little, but _coffee_ \--and her head starts to clear out, slowly. 

It’s only then that she realizes that her head is full of cotton and not salt water this morning. It’s the first time, really, since she’s been back from Neverland that she hasn’t dreamt of the ocean, and she is belatedly grateful. Emma loves the sea as much as the next girl, but she’s had enough. The fact that it won’t leave her alone, even asleep on dry land, is beginning to freak her out. She hates waking up with the salty brine of seawater coating her tongue and making her stomach roll even after she has brushed her teeth and washed it away with clear, clean tap water. 

Even now, just thinking about it, the water begins to creep its way into her mouth and her nose, and for a moment she can’t even breathe. She shakes her head to clear it, her golden hair shimmering in the warm morning sun streaming through the windows. She’s not going to let a little imaginary water bother her. Not when her feet are firmly rooted on dry ground. Magical town or not, she draws the line at worrying about drowning on land while breathing in diner air, tinged with the smell of sausages and hash browns and coffee. Seriously, some things are just impossible. 

Lost in her watery thoughts as she is, it’s truly a testament to her observational skills that she even notices when Belle slides into the stool next to her, breathless and wide eyed and windswept. 

“I can explain,” the girl manages despite clearly being out of breath, and Emma blinks at her. 

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” Belle asks.

“Nope,” Emma says, staring down forlornly at her empty coffee cup. She’s definitely going to need another one if Belle’s brought her a crisis this early in the morning. 

“Well, you will soon, I’ve no doubt. Do you mind if I join you until then? It will save some time later if you don’t have to come find me, all the while letting your temper stew.”

Belle waves Ruby down without waiting for Emma’s reply, and Emma only lets her get away with it because Ruby brings the coffee pot with her. With a full cup of coffee in front of her, Emma is content to let the chatter of the other two women wash over her. 

Like water, the thought flows into her mind unbidden. No matter what she does—

But her phone rings, and she practically dives out of her stool in her eagerness to answer it, never more grateful for the shrill ringtone she had never bothered to change. 

“Emma?” David’s voice greets her, and he sounds worried so she knows immediately that it’s work. She flicks a suspicious glance towards Belle wondering if this problem is going to be her doing. 

“I’m going to need some back up here at the station. There are some people here, and they are definitely not happy,” he says, and she can hear other voices in the background; one in particular growls “You’re damn right, we aren’t.” before David takes a breath and resumes speaking to her. “They’re demanding to see the Mayor. You haven’t seen Belle this morning, by any chance?”

Emma groans. She’s never been all that great at placating people, and if Prince Charming himself hasn’t been able to cool their fire then she’s got no chance in hell. Belle, Emma thinks, better have a good explanation up her sleeve. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I have. We’ll be over in just a bit. Can you hold the fort until then?” she asks, already knowing that David’s answer will be yes so she ends the call before he has the chance to answer her and taps Belle on the shoulder. 

“You’re up, Mayor,” she says, and Belle jumps up with a smile that’s either full of nerves or simply polite. Emma can never really tell with the de facto Mayor of Storybrook. And right now, she kind of wishes Regina was still in charge. At least things were always straightforward with her. She looks at Belle out of the corner of her eye and changes her mind. She’d never want Regina in charge again even if she has to magically divine Belle’s moods and motives instead.

\---

David is waiting for them outside the station as they walk up, and he’s surrounded by what looks like an entire family. Even from a distance, Emma can practically feel the anger radiating off the biggest guy there. Looking at the little boy standing with his mother farther away, Emma decides the big guy must be the father. He’s big, bigger than David even, and if he gets physical, she’s not sure there won’t be some injuries. Everything about the situation just smells like trouble. 

“I hope whatever you did was worth it,” Emma whispers over her shoulder.

“It was,” Belle replies without missing a beat. 

“Alright,” Emma says to the crowd outside the station. “You’ve got the attention of the Sheriff’s Department and the Mayor of Storybrook. So talk.”

The big guy pushes past David to get closer to her and Belle, and Emma puts her hand on her hip, closer to her gun. Just in case, she thinks. 

“Listen, lady,” and the guy’s jabbing a finger in the air pretty close to Belle’s face, but the girl doesn’t flinch. Emma admires that. “I didn’t vote for you, and I dunno how you managed to get yourself in charge of this town, but you clearly don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”

“There’s really no need for--” David tries to break in, ever the knight in shining armor, but Emma can tell charm won’t work on this guy. She’s right. 

The guy turns back to David, shouting now. “Oh, there’s definitely a need! This woman who claims she’s mayor,” and the guy turns back to glare at Belle, “is responsible for what’s happened to my son. My son!”

Alright. Now they were getting somewhere. Emma places her hand on the guy’s shoulder, making sure her other hand is still close to her gun, and says, “I understand you’re upset. Hey, I would be to if someone messed with my kid, but I’m going to need you to calm down and explain to me what’s going on here. What happened to your son?”

“What happened is this woman,” he’s back to jabbing a finger at Belle’s face, “made a deal, and now my boy’s voice is gone! Poof! He can’t speak! Not one damn word!”

Emma sighs internally, and she gives her own father a look over the big man’s shoulder. If the expression on David’s face is any indication, he can’t believe what he’s hearing either. 

“And he doesn’t have, you know, a really bad case of laryngitis or something?” Emma ventures because, while she’s willing to entertain the notion that something magical is at work here, she’d really rather just cover all the normal bases first; just in case the world decides to give her a break for once. 

It’s Belle who decides to rain on her parade. “No,” she says, “It’s a magical ailment that plagues the boy, but I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for your son, sir.” Belle straightens and moves to stand a little closer to the mother and son in the background. Emma can see just a little bit of what made this tiny, mousy woman a brave princess in another world. This is the woman that got elected not the one that met her at the diner earlier. 

“Your son’s sacrifice keeps our town safe from outsiders, and every single citizen of Storybrook is grateful for every day our defences stay impenetrable due to your son’s bravery,” Belle says, looking at the boy’s mother intently as the woman brings a shaking hand to cover her mouth as she nods and tries not to cry. The father is not so easily persuaded, and Emma, again, wonders if she’s going to have to use her gun, even if it is just to scare the man into shutting up.

“You magical people think you can just use us normal people, don’t you? Rip us from our lands and homes; torment our children in the name of town safety. Well, I don’t buy it. The only thing my family needs protecting from is you lot. And let me tell you, lady, if you don’t find a way to fix my son, I’ll be making a whole world of trouble for you, you mark my words.”

And when he finishes saying his piece, the man collects his family and leaves without another word. There’s a moment of stunned silence between the three of them as they stand there and watch the family retreat before David says exactly what Emma is thinking: “I have no idea what just happened.”

They both look at Belle expectantly, and she has a little half smile on her face as she shakes her head. 

“We have to go see the sea witch, I think. She will be able to answer all the questions I cannot,” Belle says, and Emma’s eyes go wide. 

The last thing she wants to do is go visit a sea witch. What the hell?

So she says, “Yeah, I’m thinking we don’t. Not really fond of witches. Why don’t we just go inside, and you can explain there.”

It sounds like flimsy reasoning, even to her ears, but she’s not really sure how to explain that she’s afraid of the ocean because of her dreams and would really rather stay as far away from it as possible if she can, thank you very much. Even checking in on trouble making pirates has become difficult for her these days, and she actually doesn’t hate Killian which makes tormenting him fun and a visit to the docks worth it. Visiting a sea witch? Not so much fun, Emma is sure of it. 

But her concerns go unheard, and David ploughs on, asking, “You mean Ursula?” 

“She goes by Vanessa these days,” Belle says, “and I’m afraid, as I said, she explains our agreement best.”

Emma’s stomach drops. “Great,” she says. 

\---

Vanessa lives right on the beach, and Emma wonders why she’s never met this sea witch before given how often Killian has her dragging her feet toward this area of the town whether she wants to or not. And, really, this close to the water, she kind of wishes Killian was here, but given that she’s with Belle and David, she doesn’t think Killian will drop by and surprise her. So Emma looks out, uneasily, at the choppy, grey waters in the distance, and silently hopes that they can get this business straightened out sooner rather than later. 

Still, she has to keep reassuring herself that it’s impossible to drown on dry land. Get it together, Swan, she thinks. But her hands are clammy, and the smell of the ocean sends a shot of adrenaline through her. She manages not to run back towards town, but only just. Really, she thinks, she’s lucky that no one else has noticed her inner panic attack by now. She feels a little crazy, and she probably looks it too. 

But she’s distracted by the house they presently arrive at because it’s quiet and clean and pretty much the opposite of what Emma thought the home of a sea witch would look like. Still, she supposes, if the Evil Queen can live in an immaculate home, so can an equally dangerous sea witch. 

Belle calls out, and the woman who walks into view on the veranda practically glitters. She has shells hanging from her ears, and her dress shimmers like the scales of a fish. Beautiful though she is, she has a shark’s grin; all teeth and predatory, and Emma’s unease rises, sitting heavy and cold in her chest. 

“Hello,” the woman who could only be Vanessa says, “To what do I owe the pleasure of both the Sheriff and the Mayor this fine morning?”

The voice isn’t what Emma expected either. It’s musical, and Emma has to resist the siren quality as it dances in the air around her. 

“Our deal, Vanessa. I believe the time has come to bring our law enforcement in on its terms,” Belle says, all business and apparently not feeling at all like floating away on the magical lilt of the sea witch’s voice like Emma does. 

“Ah, of course. Do come inside, won’t you?” Vanessa waves a hand toward the door, and Emma feels her own feet betray her as they rush forward, almost stumbling, in order to follow the sea witch’s instructions. She whispers to David as she passes, “What the hell?”

He grimaces and nods. “No control over your feet?”

Emma nods back before her will gives out, and she’s scrambling over the steps to get inside where Belle and Vanessa already wait.

“Whatever you’re doing, you need to stop. I will shoot you,” Emma says when she’s standing in front of Vanessa and her feet are once more in her control. 

Vanessa laughs, high and bright like a bell, and says, “My apologies, Sheriff. It won’t happen again.”

David moves to stand beside her, and they are shoulder-to-shoulder, a confused father-daughter team, and Emma feels a warmth in her chest that chases away some of her previous unease. It’s nice, she thinks, to have someone to stand next to, to be part of a team. And that makes her brave instead of uncertain, and she wants her answers.

“So little kid with no voice; want to tell me what that’s all about?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the two women in front of her. 

Belle sighs like she thinks Emma’s sudden abrasive tone is unfortunate, but Emma doesn’t care. She’s let Belle drag her all the way out of the town proper to the seaside without complaining too much. It’s time to get what she came for without any small talk. 

“It will be easier if you do not interrupt with questions until after, if you don’t mind,” Belle says before she launches into her tale. “When you left, there were...threats from a group of people who wanted the town destroyed and claimed they had the power to do so. I will admit to being somewhat incapacitated at the time, but I do believe they were from the same group of people that attempted to and almost succeeded in destroying the town prior to your departure. I thought it best to take them seriously. For a time, these threats were kept quiet because it seemed pointless to upset anyone, but something needed to be done. These people were increasingly volatile, and with our heroes,” Belle smiles at Emma as she says this as though the title will somehow placate her; it doesn’t, “out of town, we were vulnerable. So I did what needed to be done, and Vanessa offered her assistance.”

“For a price,” David says, darkly. 

“Magic always comes with a price,” Belle replies, her tone as dark as her lover’s, Emma notices. 

“So this whole voice thing helped keep the town safe how exactly?” Emma asks because so far all Belle has done is dance around the real issue, and Emma really doesn’t have time for that. 

“Not exactly,” Belle says and nods toward the sea witch.

“I shape the voices into a healthy body for myself,” Vanessa says, and though the spell of her voice had faded once Emma had come inside the little house, it’s back in full force now, and Emma fights against it because she’s outraged at what she’s heard. Some poor kid had to lose his voice so this woman can look nice? Yeah, no. Anger gives her power, she thinks, and she rips at the invisible ribbons that the sea witch’s voice weaves around her. David, it seems, has done the same, and he yells, “That’s horrible!” before Emma can even formulate a response. 

Vanessa’s beautiful face turns ugly, twisted up into a snarl and darkening in rage. “What’s truly horrible, princeling, is how your Queen chose to punish me for not serving her. I was magnificent once upon a time. I ruled over the seas with magic the likes of which you will never see in your lifetime. But your Queen had to have her revenge, didn’t she? Oh yes, and she wanted to go to a land without magic, and she came to me, asked for my help. But I refused. A land without magic, hah! What a waste! But that woman got her way in the end, and I’ve spent twenty some years bedridden, hideous, and powerless as punishment for not helping her idiot little scheme along.” Vanessa takes a heaving breath, and Emma flinches back from the growl and the spit that passes the woman’s lips. “Your precious little town needed a magical barrier to replace the one that fell when the curse broke. I created a new one, and in exchange, I take a voice or two every now and then to restore what she took from me. It is not too great a price to pay to keep this bland town from destruction.”

“I don’t think the people whose voices you’ve stolen would agree,” David says, quietly and without looking at the sea witch whose glare hits him with such force that Emma can feel it, standing next to him. She feels the electricity of magic in the air and the tickle of ocean waves rolling against her skin.

“If we had you take down the magical barrier, would you give back the voices you’ve taken in exchange?” Emma asks, trying to keep her father from falling victim to the sea witch’s wrath.   
“No,” Vanessa says, sharply. “What’s done is done. The deal has been made.”

“And we need the barrier, Emma,” Belle adds, her voice tiny and fragile compared to the force of Vanessa’s. “As long as no one dies and everyone is safe, it’s worth it, isn’t it?”

“Like hell it is!” Emma says. “That little kid isn’t exactly safe.”

“He will come to no harm, Sheriff,” Vanessa says, but her shark toothed smile is anything but reassuring. 

“Right, like I’m gonna trust you,” Emma says with a roll of her eyes. 

“Careful, Miss Swan. You will need me again before your trial is over and done with, and it would serve you well to avoid angering me,” Vanessa replies. 

And just like that Emma has had enough. “Fine. We’re done here. Let’s go.”

She hurries out of the house with David and Belle behind her and turns toward town, happy to be putting some distance between herself and anything having to do with the ocean for the day. But like every villain Emma’s ever run across in this place, Vanessa can’t resist having the last word; the sea witch calls after her, “Lovely day for a swim, don’t you think, Sheriff?”

And she laughs, wicked and loud, and it echoes in Emma’s ears like the roar of the waves on the empty shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that ended up being a beast of a chapter! Lots of plot and not a lot of Killian for which I apologize. There'll be a lot of him next chapter though, and hopefully it'll be up sooner rather than later. Hope you enjoyed, and thank you for all your feedback thus far.


	3. Chapter 3

The waters of Neverland are always warm. No one ever bothers to explain to her why, but she doesn’t think it’s that difficult to guess. It’s a magic thing. It’s always a magic thing these days.

Which is why when she falls into the ocean—thrown over the side of the ship by who knows what and into the water with a loud splash—she’s instantly worried, and the flash of panic in Killian’s eyes as he meets hers doesn’t really do anything to reassure her. So she treads water and calls up, “You can throw a rope or something down anytime now.”

But the rescue is slow in coming because everyone on board the ship is trying to fend off the morning’s newest on the list of ‘Nasty Magic Things That Neverland Has Sent to Kill Us’. In the water, she is powerless to do anything to help them, but her frustration and her panic are carried away by the gentle lap of waves; she can’t even begin to remember why she was worried about being in the water in the first place.

The rope she had wanted so desperately earlier finally makes its way over the side of the ship to land in the water next to her. The resulting splash hits her in the face and makes her laugh. She tries to swim toward the rope, though she isn’t sure why, but her limbs are filled with lethargy as though the water had softened them up and turned them to warm, happy mush. She feels terrific, and she is content to simply float in the water with the rope bobbing just next to her, like a pet or something.

“Come on, Emma, grab the rope,” her mother calls over the ship’s side, and Emma can see the concerned faces of both her parents peering down at her.

And Emma says, marveling at their twin looks of panic, “Why bother when it’s so nice here in the water?”

“What’s wrong with her?” her father asks someone she can’t see, and Emma hopes it’s Killian.   
She thinks that she’d kinda like it if he joined her in the water. Then, with a loud curse as he flings himself over the side and into the water, her wish is granted. Just like that. Man, Emma is really starting to love magic.

Her favorite pirate—the only one she knows, really, but that doesn’t make him any less her favorite—swims over to her. “Come on now, love. Nice and easy over to the rope, yeah?”

But she doesn’t really care about the rope. There’s a hot, wet pirate in front of her, and she’s going to take advantage. So she grabs him by his shirt and hauls him back toward her, not even giving a second thought to where her excess strength had come from when only moments before even moving a finger was more trouble than it was worth. Thinking wasn’t really all that important, anyway. Kissing; now that was something she could really set her mind to. So she does with gusto, and she isn’t too surprised when Killian seems to be having just as much fun as she is. He’d never made it a secret that he had the hots for her, had he?

Anyway, more kissing, and she’s suitably distracted so she doesn’t notice when he reaches out and grabs the rope, her parents on deck hauling it up out of the water. Killian’s hand, hot and heavy on the back of her neck, grips harder, making it impossible for her to pull away until they are both on deck again. Only then does he let her go, and she stumbles away and backwards, only just barely keeping her balance. She drags a hand across her mouth with a frown and groans when the headache slams into her.

“Bit of a hangover there, darling?” Killian asks, grinning at her.

“I hate magic,” she says, wincing at the spike of pain that stabs her between the eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know, love. I’ve always found it quite illuminating,” he replies, winking at her before sauntering his way back to the ship’s helm.

Yeah, Emma thinks, you’re going to be extra impossible now, aren’t you? And then she retreats below deck to nurse her aching head and her wounded pride.

\---

Emma sighs in relief as she drops herself into her chair at the sheriff’s station. After her appointment with Ursula this morning, she’s just happy to be far away from the ocean and back where, theoretically, she’s safe. She unpacks the food she picked up at Granny’s on the way over, and lets out a hum of appreciation when the smell of fries washes over her.

Excellent.

“Busy morning?” Killian asks, walking in and tipping his head toward her in place of ‘hello’.

“Yeah. French fry?” she asks and then says, “Or not.” because he gives her a look like she’s crazy for even thinking of offering. Touchy pirate.

“I didn’t know you had anything against french fries,” she continues, popping one in her mouth and talking around it.

“Nothing particularly, no. I haven’t felt hungry as of late,” he says and he looks at her intensely for a moment.

She frowns and decides that keeping him talking about business will keep his mind off of whatever emotional rollercoaster he wants to send her down today. So she says, “I was down by the ocean this morning.”

“Ah, you didn’t fall in this time, I trust?” And he smirks at her, and she knows she is never, ever going to live that down.

“Ha ha,” she says, inserting as much sarcasm as she is capable of into each syllable. “No, we went to see Ursula, the sea witch. Have you heard of her?”

If anyone would know anything about a sea witch, she figures it would be a pirate. Same place of business after all and Killian seems to have his finger in almost every villainous pie Emma knows about; he gets around.

“If memory serves, she’s not one you want to tangle with,” he says, “But that’s never stopped me.”

“I guess not. Want to make yourself useful?” she asks.

“Do my ears deceive me or was that an invitation, darling?” he asks, grinning at her with his own brand of insufferable charm so she walks over to him, leans in close, and licks her lips, watching as his eyes follow the tip of her tongue. 

“Yes, it was,” she says, her voice low and breathy.

And then she abruptly moves away just as he leans in, and says “To go down to Ursula’s house and see what you can find, idiot.”

“Damn,” Killian says, but he bounces back quickly, still smiling at her.

She snorts back laughter, and waves her hand toward the door. “Go away now,” she orders.

“As you wish, darling. I’ll let you know what I find,” he says, and then he’s gone before Emma even registers that he’s walked out.

\---

“Okay, if we’re going to do this—” she begins only to have him cut her off.

“We do it your way?” he says, and he follows it up with a condescending smile. She sighs.

“Actually what I was going to say was: if we’re going to do this, then we have to have each other’s backs. No switching sides on me in the middle, okay?”

“You wound me, Swan. I thought we had reached an accord. You and I, we’ve been through worse than this, have we not? And yet you still doubt me?” He says it with exaggerated drama, all wide eyed with his good hand over his heart, but Emma isn’t fooled. She’s hurt his feelings.

“Yeah because you really care, right?” she says, and it isn’t what she meant to say at all. Then again, if there’s one thing she can claim as a talent, it is making a bad emotional situation worse. And she definitely has if the way he stiffens and turns his face away from her is any indication whatsoever.

“Killian,” she says knowing that he’s still listening even if he isn’t looking at her, “it’s me, alright? It has nothing to do with you, and you know it. Don’t be a princess about it.”

He sniffs, but he’s looking at her again, gleam back in his eyes. “The only princess here is you, Swan.”

“Could’ve fooled me, Captain,” she says, putting a little extra emphasis on his title before reaching down and grabbing her gun from its holster. Her hands are a little sweaty, but they don’t shake as she checks her ammo.

“So we’re going in through, what, a cave?” she asks.

“I have no idea what it is,” Killian replies, “But it’s back behind the house. You wouldn’t notice it for all the sand in the way. Perfect hiding spot.”

“If you’ve got something to hide,” Emma says, giving Killian a significant look, and she gets the strangest impression that, if he were a kid, he’d stick his tongue out at her.

“Everyone always has something to hide,” he throws back, and now she wants to stick out her tongue and he really would take that as an invitation so she just shakes her head.

“Right then, Swan, after you,” he says, and they walk out of the station together, her holding the door open for him as he trots out with his coat swishing behind him.

She’d offered her car for their little night excursion, but Killian refused, saying it was a better idea to walk. Halfway down to the sea shore, Emma regrets letting him have his way on that one. Still, she supposes, maybe it’ll give them the element of surprise.

“Turn here, Swan,” Killian instructs, and Emma’s stomach turns as the sea comes into view. With Killian distracting her, she’d almost forgotten where they were going. She wets her dry lips and tries to ignore the nerves fluttering in her stomach and the salty taste in the air by focusing on Killian moving in the shadows just in front of her.

He stops and points. “It’s just there.”

Emma takes her gun out, and together they move forward, creeping through the shadows. Breaking and entering isn’t really in her job description. Not in her current job description, anyway, but she’d actually checked this time; Ursula's property was owned by the local government, technically, which meant she only needed Belle’s permission to do a little checking around the place. Emma wasn’t interested in taking chances though, and she figures that waltzing up to Ursula’s front door and asking to look around wouldn’t work out so well for anyone involved. Hence the cloak and dagger mission.

But if waltzing up to the front door would get them a bad reaction, Emma doesn’t want to find out what Ursula’s reaction to them sneaking around her secret cave or whatever in the middle of the night would be. So she doesn't have a flashlight on her, and she trips over something in the sand. She thinks she's going to stumble straight into Killian who turns as if to catch her, but she saves herself at the last second.

He lifts his eyebrow and tilts his head toward her, and she knows the questioning glance is mocking. So she says, "Shut up," before straightening up again and looking out at the ocean.

She shivers, looking at it, because the water looks strange in the moonlight. It twists and turns and disappears only to reappear just a little to the left. It makes her dizzy just staring at it, and she feels as though it’s calling to her.

But then Killian clears his throat, impatiently, and she turns her eyes back to the task at hand, wiggles her toes in her shoes, and reminds herself she’s on solid ground, not floating slowly toward the bottom of the ocean.

The entrance to the hiding place Killian had found when he’d cased the property the day before rises in front of her, and she looks at it curiously. He’d been correct in assuming she wouldn’t have seen it unless he’d pointed it out to her. It looks like just another sand dune, and Emma isn’t even sure it’s the entrance to anything until Killian points at a sandy colored door that she can just see the edges of if she looks closely.

“How do we get in?” she asks, looking for a door knob that refuses to reveal itself.

He just looks at her for a moment before shrugging. “By opening the door, Swan. Of course.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and then just leans against the door. She stumbles a little when it gives easily under her weight, but pushes it open the rest of the way with her shoulder.

What waits for them inside isn’t the dark, dank cave Emma had imagined when Killian had mentioned the place to her. It is dark, for sure, but it’s definitely dry and warmer than the cool night breeze blowing in off the ocean outside. When she pulls the door not quite closed behind them, most of the feel, smell, and sound of the sea evaporates, and Emma’s grateful for the respite. Letting the ocean get to her like this when it can’t even hurt her is still ridiculous, but at least she won’t be distracted.

“There’s a room just down this way, and that’s what we came here to see,” Killian says, and she follows him up what she assumes is a narrow hallway.

The room quickly comes into sight, and Emma’s thankful for whatever is causing the glow of blue-green light coming from underneath the door even if it casts strange shadows on the wall.

Emma lifts her gun and motions Killian behind her, standing up against the wall as she reaches for the door knob. She pulls the door open quickly, and moves right behind it to stand in the doorway with her gun pointed inward. There’s no one there that she can see, but she keeps her gun out as she moves into the room, just in case.

The room is bigger than she thought it would be, and she can’t find the source of the blue-green light right away. But as she scans the room, she thinks to look up, and her heart almost stops.

The ceiling wasn’t a proper ceiling at all. Instead, it was, she hoped, an incredibly thick piece of glass, and that was all that separated her from the ocean above. The lights, which were set into the edges of the walls she noticed, were just bright enough to illuminate the flashes of the sea creatures swimming overhead. Enough to make them seem like shadow beasts, capable of swooping in at any moment and taking her away, into the ocean where her lungs would fill up with sea water until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, and felt nothing but cold until the numbness took over, and her heartbeat slowed down to a heavy, labored throbbing until even it slowly, slowly, slowly came to a complete stop.

She reaches up to grasp at her throat, wondering if her hand is enough to stop the rush of water, and she gasps for air, trying desperately to get enough oxygen into her lungs so that she doesn’t succumb to the water. Not again. Not like this, and all she can taste is salt, as the water closes in over her head, forces its way through her nose and her mouth and into her eyes. And she opens her mouth to scream, but no one can hear her under the ocean except the fish and they aren’t going to help her. And she’s gulping down water now instead of air and she wants to struggle her way back to the surface except she’s too tired to swim now. And things are getting cold and dark and empty.

“Emma,” Killian says, and Emma blinks her way out of the nightmare she’s reliving to look at him with his eyes the color of the ocean and the sea swimming in his veins. She wonders, still caught up in the whirlpool of her waking nightmare, if he would bleed sea water if she shot him? If seaweeds would pour from his mouth like blood?

And, unwittingly, she raises her gun as if she’s going to try and see if she can make him bleed the sea.

Except she stumbles backward and into the edge of a table, sending glass bottles clattering to the ground where they shatter, and she remembers that she’s not dreaming and she’s not drowning. And Killian is a person who would bleed red blood the same as anyone else if she shot him which she isn’t going to do because that would be insane.

“Alright now, love?” Killian asks, and she nods, trying to avoid looking up at the ocean above her head again.

He looks at her gun speculatively so she lowers it, thinks about holstering it for a moment, and decides that, even on the off chance that they get ambushed by an angry sea witch, she doesn’t actually need the gun especially if she’s going to be acting crazy all night. So, putting on the safety first, she puts her gun away. If they do get attacked, she’ll find something else to use as a weapon. 

Killian waits a moment as if he’s double checking that she isn’t going to pull her gun on him again for no apparent reason before he jerks his head toward the back of the room.

There are shelves lining the walls, and in rows along the shelves, Emma sees lots of odds and ends. What they’ve come for are the jars. Nasty looking things with sea urchins, fish scales, and what Emma can only assume are probably fish guts covering their outsides and lids.

“You’re sure this is what we’re looking for?” Emma asks, wrinkling her nose. She’s seen some gross things in her time, but never anything quite like this.

“Quite sure. Standard protection blessings,” Killian says with a nod, and Emma groans inwardly.

“Can I just smash them?”

“I don’t see why not.”

So she tips the jars over and onto the floor where they crack open.

From each jar comes a scream or a wail as mist rises around them. Emma covers her ears and mourns their element of surprise as it slips out of the door along with the mist.

“Well, I guess a few people will be getting their voices back then,” she says, and she’s pretty confident about it, far more so than she’d been earlier when Killian had said that he’d found the missing voices locked away in jars. The screaming definitely went a long way towards convincing her.

Even more convincing is Ursula as she glides in through the door, bringing with her an unnatural wind that winds its way through Emma’s hair and sends chills through her. So Emma goes for her gun, but it turns into an eel in her hand. She lets the wet, slimy creature go with a yell of surprise.

“I don’t believe you’ll be needing that, Sheriff,” Ursula says, her lips curving into a wicked smile.

Then she waves her hand through the air, and Emma finds herself falling, hard, onto her knees. The concrete floor shreds the fabric of her jeans—she hadn’t liked that pair anyway—and she can feel the skin of her knees being eaten away. The palms of her hands are in a similar state, she thinks, considering they had also met the concrete to save her from falling completely. Emma looks up at Ursula and tries to ignore the eel sliding over her hands. If she hadn’t been so distracted earlier, she might’ve been more prepared for this.

She looks around for Killian, but he’s nowhere to be found; Ursula could have done away with him already, and Emma sucks in a deep breath when the idea of him dead—well, it makes her chest feel hollow, and her heart squeeze the way it had when Cora had thrust her hand into her chest in the Enchanted Forest.

“What to do with you, hm? Don’t you know better than to interfere in other people’s affairs?” Ursula says, and Emma glares up at her, struggles to sit, but gives up when she realizes that Ursula’s magical grip on her is keeping her firmly on the floor.

“No, I suppose not. Heroes rarely do mind their own business,” Ursula moves forward, her iridescent gown flowing around her like a waterfall. What is it with villains and high fashion, Emma wonders; she’d seen some of Regina’s gowns when they were in Neverland and Gold’s coat made of...well, she hadn’t wanted to ask, and frankly, it was ridiculous.

And Emma stares down at Ursula’s feet, wondering if maybe she’d be better off if she started wearing gowns. Maybe it was a signal between villains: don’t mess with me, I sparkle and my dress costs more than you’ll ever have or something. She feels like laughing—figures it’s some absurd reaction to the shock of probably dying sometime very soon—but Ursula’s fingers viciously digging into her throat cut any hilarity short. Emma feels her head being jerked upwards, and Ursula’s eyes, when Emma meets them, are even more vicious still.

“I think I know exactly what to do with you, savior. I think you’ll appreciate getting more closely acquainted with my fish,” she says, snapping her fingers, and Emma has less than a second to process the threat before her mouth and nose really are filling with water and she’s flailing her arms around in response to the shock of icy cold sea water.

She can’t—can’t think even and seems to have forgotten how to swim because her arms and legs just keep flailing and she isn’t sure if she’s moving or sinking or what. Her brain has effectively shut down, and it just fucking figures that this is it, doesn’t it? That she’d been having prophetic style dreams all this time, and she should have listened to her own subconscious when it told her that water equaled danger and to stay the hell off the beach. She’d never really liked the beach anyway. She wonders, because apparently she’s pretty big on tangents tonight even when she’s facing mortal peril and certain death by drowning, if she’ll wash up onto the shore all grey and bloated with seaweed making her hair look like a mass of green-grey instead of gold and her eyes wide and bleached of color from the water?

“Come on, love. Nice and easy, now, back to shore,” a voice whispers in her ear which should be impossible under the water. Yet she hears it, clear as day, and suddenly she remembers how to swim, that she can swim, and she does.

She’s not drowning, not tonight.

And the sand, when she reaches the shore, feels so wonderful under her fingers that she laughs.

“Not to cut your joy short, darling, but we’ve got company,” Killian says, and Emma jumps because when did he get there and not that she isn’t really glad that he isn’t dead, but how?

But she doesn’t get a chance to ask because he’s pointing out at the ocean, and Emma follows his finger to the pandemonium of the water. There are waves surging up and bubbling around as Ursula—and her chariot, apparently—rise from the water, gleaming even in the faint light. The sea witch is hold what looks like a wicked sharp trident, and Emma knows she’s only just escaped death once tonight so she isn’t overly keen on facing it for a second time.

So she yells, “Run!” and takes off into the night, back toward town.

\---

She’s out of breath, panting and doubled over with her hands on her knees, when Killian catches up to her back at the station. He’s grinning like a madman, like he’s just had the time of his life, and his hair is sticking up at odd angles. She wrinkles her nose at him.

“She try and drown you too?” she asks.

“Ah, I did seem to get a bit wet, yes,” Killian says, and then, “But at least I remembered how to swim.”

Emma opens her mouth and then snaps it closed. She has nothing to say in response to that embarrassing bit of truth, but then she remembers the voice that had reminded her how to swim in the first place.

“So you saved my life again then,” she says, more to herself than anything.

He stops grinning suddenly, and he looks at her for a moment with what she thinks is surprise. They are so alike sometimes, and Emma knows from experience that he keeps half of what he’s thinking locked behind his eyes so no one can tell what he’s feeling. Half the time, she can only just read him; the other half is just educated guessing.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, love, but I am certainly glad you didn’t meet your own watery grave this evening,” he says finally, and she can’t believe he’s pretending he didn’t save her. It’s the second time he’s kept her from dying in the water, and it isn’t as though it means there’s some kind of debt involved. She’s saved his ass enough times by now that he would still owe her a few more times over even including tonight. And usually he wouldn’t miss the chance to goad her about being a damsel in distress to his knight in shining armor.

If that’s the way he wants to play it though…

“Okay,” she says, “Whatever. Let’s just call it a night, alright?”

And she turns to go into the station where she’ll need to lock up before she can make it home to a hot shower and a comfy bed.

“Emma,” he calls softly, and she turns back to face him only to find him almost uncomfortably close. She stumbles back just a bit, but she can still see herself in his eyes.

“Whatever sea spirit helped you to shore this evening, I am indebted to them. I would find your death most disagreeable, I think,” he says.

She’s not sure if that’s sweet or condescending so she says, “Yeah, your death would be pretty disagreeable to me too.”

He looks at her oddly again, and she feels as though she’s missing out on some big joke.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and says, “Good night?”

She doesn’t want him to think she’s rudely forcing him away, but she isn’t sure what else she can say after...whatever that was.

“Yes, good night,” he replies.

Then there’s a tense moment where she thinks, maybe, he’ll dip his head down just a bit to kiss her and, maybe, she’d be a little okay with that right now all things considered. Except he doesn’t, and she probably would have slapped him if he’d tried anyway.

\---

She finally gets home, has her shower, and makes her way to bed. She can still feel the cold sting of sea water on her skin, even after her shower, and the motion of waves still beat against her arms and legs, a phantom memory in the dark.

It takes her far longer than it should to get to sleep, and when she finally does, she dreams: of her hand slipping out of someone else’s and of water filling her mouth as she screams because whoever she’d been trying to save is sinking to the bottom of the sea without her, and there’s nothing she can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that more than makes up for the lack of Killian in the last chapter, right? ;)
> 
> Also disclaimer: Obviously, Season Three is starting soon, and I fully expect everything about my story, especially the Neverland stuff, to get jossed pretty much right away. But, I mean, we all knew this was AU when we started, right? Anyway, I won't be including anything from Season Three in this fic unless it is by accident. So this will be a spoiler free zone more or less.


	4. Chapter 4

The ocean is a fickle entity. It takes and it gives at will, and it cannot be controlled. 

“It has its own magic, you see, hidden in its depths. It calls to you, and once you answer, there’s no going back. You belong to the sea, sure as anything,” Killian says, leaning against the side of the ship, face in shadow as he peers down at the water shimmering in the moonlight. 

“Did the sea call to you?” Emma asks him, her voice low and murmuring like the sound of waves against the planks of the ship. 

“Aye, that she did,” he replies, turning his head to look at her, and when his gaze catches her’s, she feels her breath leave her for a moment.

There’s something in the air of Neverland, she thinks, that has made her dive off the deep end where he’s concerned. She’s felt it looking across at him in the middle of casual conversations on the ship, and the rise and fall of his chest matches the steady rhythm of her’s; she’s felt it when she takes in a rush of exhilarated air after successfully fighting off a vicious flock of fairies with him by her side; she’s felt it when something hardens in the pit of her stomach and something that feels like despair at ever finding her son hits her with sudden force, knocking all the air out of her; and she’s felt it when the touch of his hand and the soft brush of his own breath ghosts over the shell of her ear as he leans in and whispers: “We’ll find him, Emma. I promise.”, and only then can she breathe again. 

It’s a strange sort of feeling, the knowledge that he’s always right beside her even when she’s given him no reason to stay. 

“You remind me of the sea, love. Unpredictable and wild,” he says, his mouth quirking upwards into a mockery of a smile. 

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs, and she stares down at the sea below them, hoping that his next move will be to goad her with some ridiculous insult. The idea that she’s somehow, impossibly, come to trust him is too much. Knowing that he feels...similarly is too scary to even contemplate. 

And he knows her so well. That’s scary too, but still, she’s grateful when he says, “Perhaps you’re right, darling. You aren’t like the sea at all. My mistake. You are more like the desert: dry and rough, hmm?”

She punches him on the shoulder, laughing, and she mentally thanks him for letting the moment pass. They’ve had far too many moments recently. Not that she’s keeping track, of course. 

And this moment is broken, like so many before, and neither one of them have time to dig this hole they’ve begun together any deeper.

\---  
She remembers this moment as it dances across her memory, taunting her, while he sits across from her at the Sheriff’s station. This is her territory, not his, but she can feel him, knows this is another moment just like all the others. She will admit that she’s keeping track now even if she refuses to consider the why of it. 

There’s something about his eyes today that catches her attention for a moment and makes her hold his gaze and ignore the paperwork she’s been slaving over all morning, pen poised to write something that she can’t remember now, in this moment. He looks lost, and she knows that feeling all too well. Knows that comfort is difficult to find when you are a lost girl or a lost boy, but knowing that someone else is lost too...well, that makes all the difference in the world. 

And she wants to spill the secret of the ocean, to let it wash out of her in a rush of waves. Wouldn’t that be better? 

So she says, “I keep having dreams about the ocean.”

She does it hesitantly despite her resolve because it is still strange, this wanting, needing to rely on people, and even stranger still, wanting to rely on him. And she doesn’t have the courage to continue looking him in the eye so she moves her gaze back down to her desk, at the scattered paperwork, and the blue glow of the computer screen. 

“Aye. She’s in your blood now,” he says, and she frowns in just the right amount to hint at her mood. Whatever’s on her mind isn’t the quiet, calm sea of reverie but the deep, dark depths of the water where only the most noxious of sea beasts can see what moves in the dark. 

Certain days, many of them in his past, he would have been happy to join her there, to take up residence and live, soaking up the deep and the dark. It’s an odd thing what perspective does to a man. 

He does nothing to comfort her, knowing that sometimes the simple act of confession is enough of a balm to soothe the soul. So continues to tell him her worries, saying, “Maybe. They’re...nightmares.”

She fiddles with a pen, twirling it in her hands; the slap of plastic on skin fills the silence that lies between them. 

“You’re downing, and I can’t save you,” her voice has gone softer than he’s ever heard it, and it hurts as though she’s slapped him. Yes, he wants to say, I know. But he doesn’t because now is not the time, and she continues, “Some hero, huh?”

Self depreciation is a tool, and she wields it well, using it as a shield to wave away the vulnerability of the moment. Any sane man would have assumed they’d gotten past her facade, her bravado by now, that a shield was no longer necessary and haven’t we been through enough? But he’s never claimed to be a sane man, and he knows she’ll retreat as many times as she needs to before the end, and he’ll let her go every time. Maybe it’s a form of punishment. He stopped analyzing himself a long, long time ago. 

“No chance of me drowning, love. I can swim, remember?” He knows the steps of this dance by heart, knows how to sidestep the emotional trips and traps of their conversations, and how to keep on dancing as though she has never faltered. 

So he is surprised when she decides to stop mid-step and prolong the discussion. “Yeah, but what if something was pulling you down?”

She looks at him now, briefly. Just a flicker of a glance before her gaze is back on the trivial things that cover her desk. But it is enough for him to know that this...whatever it is that she’s decided has changed the dance entirely, and he has to start learning new steps if he wants to keep up. 

So he doesn’t joke with her, not this time. “Then you’d save me, Emma.”

Her name rolls off his tongue the way only one other name ever has. He savors it.

“But if I couldn’t?” she protests, “If I didn’t?”

He wants to say that she’s so close to everything he’s been avoiding for days and weeks now, but he doesn’t because she looks at him again, holds him captive and immobile with only her stare. 

So he only says, “You’d save me.”

His voice cracks over the words, and he wants so desperately to reach out to her, to touch her cheek, but he knows it would be futile to try. Then her eyes flutter closed, and he knows that the moment is gone. If only we weren’t so afraid, he thinks, and then her pen is moving again, everything slotting itself back into the normal rhythm around them. 

\---

The town has been full of tension all day. Emma could feel it in her bones when she woke up, in her mouth when she had her morning coffee, and in the way she’s been keeping her gun close all day. 

She isn’t surprised when the phone rings, and David’s voice tells her that she’s needed at the Mayor’s office because things have escalated out of control. 

Belle’s deal with the sea witch is over, Emma knows, but not everyone got their voice back. The little boy whose father promised trouble is one of the unfortunate ones who will forever be silent, and Emma is sure his father is going to be behind whatever mischief has brought her out of her office and into the bright light of day. As she pulls her little yellow bug up to the curb and steps out of her car, she pats the gun on her hip, just to be sure. 

She can hear the trouble before she even sees it, and it is Belle’s voice, rising over the crowd plaintively, that sets her feet moving just a little bit faster. 

Sure enough, the big bear of a man that had forced Emma to tangle with the sea witch to begin with is the loudest voice at the front of the crowd, towering over Belle and snarling out threats. He’s stirred up quite the crowd too, and they rumble unhappily behind him, pushing forward like a stormy sea. 

Emma walks over, her shoulders back and her badge glittering in the sunlight. She hopes that it’s enough. 

“I’m going to have to ask you all to cease and desist,” she yells over the crowd, and she gets irate yells in reply. 

Belle looks at Emma and nods, retreating behind the sheriff. Emma steps forward so that she’s face to face with the bear man, and she says, “You need to take your friends and leave.”

“We’ll leave,” he snarls back at her, “when she’s paid for what’s she’s done to the people of this town. When she’s paid for what she did to my son!”

Emma moves her jacket aside so that her gun joins the fray, but she doesn’t get the chance to make her own threats because the air is suddenly sizzling with magic. The hairs on her arm rise up, and she feels a wave of dizziness overtake her. It’s not her magic, she knows, and she almost wishes it was. 

“Gold, I’ve got this under control,” she says, as the man appears before her, his cane long gone, with a mad grin on his face. Emma’s not scared of him exactly, but she’s seen what he’s capable of—what he’s _really_ capable of—and that scares the hell out of her because she isn’t stupid. 

“Do you, dearie? My mistake,” he hisses and then looks at the crowd that has finally gone silent thanks to his impromptu appearance. 

She wants to yell ‘Yes! Because it is my job to get situations like this under control, and I’m fully capable of doing it!’, but the mob’s leader pushes her roughly out of the way so she’s too busy trying to save herself from falling over to say much of anything. 

“I know you,” the man says to Gold. “You’re the bitch’s pet demon.”

Gold sneers at the man, and Emma shakes her head. The guy must be stupid to insult Belle in front of Gold like that. Belle knows it too, and she walks over, her hair bouncing, to her lover’s side. 

“You need not interfere, Rumple. This man has every right to be angry with me,” Belle says, her voice clear, and it carries over the crowd who nod in approval. 

Gold ignores her, and says to the man, “I’ll make you a deal. You son’s voice for—”

“For anything! I’ll give you anything to fix my son!” the man interrupts, his large, meaty fists clenching at Gold’s coat and his eyes large in his head. 

Gold smiles, all teeth and charm, and he shrugs. “As you wish. I’ll collect later. For now,” And he waves his hand through the air with a flourish before pulling Belle away.

“Dad?” A little boy runs up to the man, and the crowd cheers joyfully around them.

The tension Emma’s had stored up in her body all day starts seeping away, but she holds onto it tightly because she’s angry. This is not how things are supposed to work. So she stomps her way over to where Gold is speaking softly, urgently to Belle, and she puts her hands on her hips.

“You can’t go around making deals like that in my town, Gold,” she says.

“Your town, now is it, Miss Swan?” he replies, turning to face her, his gaze steady and unwavering. 

“Yeah, my town. You don’t get to make deals in it. Not anymore. You don’t get to terrorize them like that,” she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the father and his son. 

“I should think that you have bigger problems to be worrying about, Sheriff, than one harmless, little deal,” he says, and then he’s gone before she has time to do more than blink. 

Belle looks at her helplessly, and says, “He does that.”

“Yeah,” Emma says, and then she stalks back to her car and lets the door slam behind her when she gets inside, her hands balled into fists on the steering wheel. Witches stealing voices and devils making deals, she thinks, and then, from somewhere in the recess of her memory, comes a thought: these things always come in threes.

\---

She ends her day at the docks, looking for Killian because her son is with his father, her parents want so much for her to be effortlessly happy like they are, and she just needs someone who gets it: the anger, the frustration, the need to wallow in it for awhile. 

He calls to her from the deck of his ship, and then joins her down on the pier as she walks to the end of it. She sits on the edge and watches the water, trying very hard not to be afraid of it. 

He watches her for a moment; she can feel his gaze on her back.

“Are you going to stare all evening, or are you going to sit?” she snaps at him, voice like a knife. 

He sits beside her and says, “Perfect day for a swim, don’t you think, love?”

She can see her breath, foggy in the cold evening air, and she turns her head to look at him. “You aren’t serious?” she says.

“Deadly serious, I’m afraid,” and he pushes himself up off the pier before jumping off the edge into the water. 

“It’s freezing!” Emma yelps, scrambling up and waiting for him to rise to the surface again. Stupid pirate, she thinks, and her fingers dig into the skin of her palm as she clenches her hands. He’s been down too long, she worries. He’s not coming back up, she concludes, and her whole body grows cold from the thought. 

When he finally surfaces, he’s grinning at her, and she feels such an overwhelming sense of relief that all her anger from earlier in the day evaporates. 

“You are ridiculous,” she says, her voice high and giddy from relief, and then, “Aren’t you cold?”

“The water is the perfect temperature, darling. Are you sure you won’t join me?” he says, winking at her.

“If by perfect temperature you mean practically ice then no, thank you,” she says, and she wonders why his lips haven’t turned blue, why he isn’t shivering, why his teeth aren’t chattering. 

“Suit yourself, Swan,” he says, and he swims out and away from her before turning back and swimming over to where she’s standing. 

He looks up at her with sea blue eyes, and says, “You have hair like sunlight, you know.”

“Get out of there before you freeze to death,” she replies.

“What a difficult feat that would be,” he says, but he does as she says. 

When he’s standing on the pier again, she says, “That was a stupid thing to do.”

“Perhaps, but it made you smile.” He looks at her intently, and she just shakes her head when she realizes that she has been smiling, probably ever since he’d returned to the water’s surface instead of sinking below it forever. 

“There should be easier, less dangerous ways to get me to smile,” she says, and she wraps her arms around herself as if to stave off the chill of the coming night. 

He shrugs and replies, “I agree.”

They watch the sun set below the sea line, and Emma lets herself enjoy the quiet companionship. This is what I came for, she thinks. 

After the last bit of light disappears, Killian turns to her and says, “Better run off now, sunshine. Your family will be missing you.”

Emma laughs, “And the list of obnoxious pet names just grows longer.”

He smiles at her, and then gestures back toward the town with his hook. “Go on then, Emma. I’m sure you have better things to be getting on with, and you’ve spent enough time here in the dark with me.”

Emma tries not to laugh, but she can’t suppress the smile that travels across her lips and curves them upwards. The whole tormented villain routine has always amused her, especially on him. 

“Yeah, you in the dark is real sinister,” she says, wiggling her fingers at him. 

“What? You don’t think I’m dark and dangerous? Darling, I should be offended,” he says, but he laughs and it ruins the whole effect.

“But you aren’t because we both know you’re a terrible villain,” she says.

“Indeed, and you think you are a terrible hero. Quite the pair we make, you and I,” he says, and she takes a step back from him, half turns as if to leave.

“Two peas in a pod,” she says brusquely, and then she whirls back to face him, her mouth open as if to say more. For a moment, she thinks very seriously about kissing him just for the hell of it, but instead, she snaps her mouth shut and just looks at him. 

“Cat got your tongue, darling?” he asks.

“I’m not really a cat person,” she says, and then she does turn to go because she has nothing left to say to him; he’s stolen all her words away somehow. 

He calls to her, softly, as she walks away, “Sweet dreams.”

But she knows better than to hope for that.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun is high in the sky, and for Maine, it’s oddly warm. The water is dazzling, inviting, and she’s standing on the pier, her skin soaking up the warmth of the sun’s rays as they dance across her bare arms. 

It’s the perfect day for a swim, she thinks, and she doesn’t hesitate to strip down and dive into the water. It ripples around her, and she thinks, as absurd as it is, that the water seems happy to see her.

So she floats on the surface with her face to the sun, and she basks in the perfection of the moment. It isn’t often that she gets to enjoy them. Even this one comes to an abrupt end as a cascade of water showers down on her in rainbow streams; she’s been splashed from behind, and she whirls around to find the culprit.

“Good to know you can swim when you put your pretty little head to the task,” he says. 

She laughs and splashes him back. 

“Wanna race, pirate?” she taunts. “Then we’ll see who’s better in the water.”

He swims up into her personal space, leans in close so that she’s practically cross eyed trying to keep her eyes on his face. 

“Think you can swim with the big fish, love?”

She swats at him as he tries to grab her around her waist. “I hope you aren’t implying that you’re a big fish,” she says with a roll of her eyes. 

He looks down at the water as though he's observing something underneath it, and then he looks back up at her with a smirk. 

"I don't know, darling. Why don't you tell me," he says.

"Ugh, that is not what I meant," she replies, shoving at his shoulder.

"I know," he says. His eyes are honest to god twinkling, and it must be a story book character thing because she's never seen anyone else's eyes do that. 

It's really distracting, and she needs to focus because she does know that he’s a good swimmer. More than that, she knows she needs some kind of edge if she wants to beat him. And she will beat him if only to wipe the smirk off his stupidly attractive face. 

She points to a buoy in the distance. “We’ll swim to there.”

He nods. “On the count of three then, love?”

“Yeah, and we’ll count together, alright?”

“One.”

“Two.”

And just as she starts on three, she splashes him with as much water as she can and takes off swimming toward the buoy as if her life depended on it. Over the sound of her own splashing, she can hear him spluttering and cursing behind her. She smirks, closed mouthed, and swims harder. 

She feels fast, like she’s flying through the water. She laughs, gets sea water in her mouth, but she doesn’t mind the taste of salt, relishes it even. The buoy seems to get farther away from her than before despite how fast she’s swimming, but she thinks she’ll never get tired of this feeling: lighter than air and faster than light. 

She reaches the buoy first, filled to the brim with pride for beating him, for winning, and she turns to gloat, fully expecting him to be swimming up behind her. Instead, she is met with an eerie silence and a distinct lack of pirate captain. 

It feels like the sun has dimmed, its warm, soft glow turning blue-grey like the water, and she pants shallowly, still trying to catch her breath. She looks around her, the feeling of wicked delight fading from her as though she’s been thrown onto the ground and wrung dry suddenly. She can’t see him anywhere, can’t even see the pier any longer, and she didn’t know the buoy was that far from the shore. 

The water is almost still around her, but every little movement seems to catch her eye. Then she feels something warp around her ankle, and she’s below the water before she has the chance to yell. 

Water fills her nose, and she thrashes around until a hand cups her face, and she realizes that it’s only him. She would sigh in relief but she’s under the water with no breath to spare; pretty soon, she won’t be able to breathe at all. 

She points up toward the surface, jerking her head away from his hand, but he shakes his head. Frowning, she tries to struggle away, but his other arm is wrapped securely around her waist. He doesn’t let go. 

Then he’s kissing her, sharing his air between their mouths. She stops struggling, and her brain tries to shut down. She feels like she’s on fire, and it has been too long since she’s been kissed like this. Too long and too painful. 

So she throws herself entirely into the kiss, anchoring herself in the here and now and allowing all other thoughts to sink to the back of her mind. 

The only thing left after she locks heartbreak and loneliness away is the feeling of his lips against hers and his hand stroking her cheek and the water around them, keeping them suspended in time. 

She’d stay down below the surface with him with the glimmer of the sun from above the water on her face and the subtle motion of water on her skin just kissing him forever if she could. She would, but her lungs are burning from the lack of air. She’s been under too long now. She feels light headed and not just from his kiss. 

It’s funny; he truly has taken her breath away. 

So she tries, she does, to pull back, but he holds her tightly still. She places her hand on his chest and pushes, gaining any small amount of space that she can. She looks at him, trying to signal that she needs to go back to the surface, but—

Her eyes are open wide, and despite the ocean water around her, her vision is crystal clear. 

And she thinks very seriously about trying to scream because it’s not Killian she’s looking at or...it is but—

Parts of his face are missing as if they’ve been eaten away by fish. The wounds should be red, angry, and bleeding, but this creature—she won’t call it Killian; she won’t—is bloodless. Blue-grey skin and lips, and the one eye still in its socket staring at her is devoid of any color. 

The creature grins at her, all teeth and feral, and she can’t stop the scream now. She wishes they were on land so that at least her terror would have a voice, somewhere to go. Instead, she gets only a mouthful of sea water, and the creature kisses her again; it’s chaste, closed mouthed, and she cringes away, repulsed by the feeling of dead flesh touching her lips. 

She would fight if she could, but she doesn’t have the energy to force her way out of the creature’s hold; already she can see the darkness creeping its way into her vision, and her limbs feel heavy but weightless. 

The creature gazes at her with its one good eye, smiles at her with far more tenderness than she would have thought it capable of, and she can’t order her thoughts anymore, can’t remember why she wants to fight, if she even has a reason to. 

So she doesn’t fight; she gives in, and she and the creature sink slowly, oh so slowly, into the blackness at the bottom of the sea, locked in an eternal embrace. 

\---

“Mom? Wake up! Mary Margaret’s here. She’s making breakfast. Are you awake yet? She told me to get you.”

It’s Henry, and Emma wants to answer him, doesn’t want him to know that anything’s wrong. She has trouble when her limbs are slow to move, buried under blankets, and she’s retching, coughing up sea water as she rises. Her throat and lungs feel raw, and she stares at the wet patches all over her quilt with astonishment. It just isn’t possible. 

It was only a nightmare.

Her breath comes in shallow gasps, and her hands tremble. 

It wasn’t real. 

But the sea water she’s coughed up says otherwise, and her son looks worried. 

“Mom?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, kid,” she says slowly, trying to smile and hoping to hell that she manages to look sane. “I’m great. Why don’t you go tell Mary Margaret that I’ll be down in a minute, alright?”

“You don’t really look so great. Kind of green,” Henry says, and he scrambles closer to her, peers at her face, and she can’t keep her smile plastered on for much longer. 

“Yeah, I think you’re sick, mom. Do you want soup? I always want soup when I’m sick.” He frowns for a moment, his forehead wrinkling, and then continues, “But maybe it’s too early for soup?”

“Too early for soup,” she repeats slowly. “Yeah, I think it is, kid.”

She feels a little like throwing up, and Henry doesn’t show any signs of leaving her side. His hands flutter around her like he isn’t sure what to do with a mother who can’t take care of him, a mother who needs him to take care of her instead. 

She reaches out to him, thinks patting his hair might reassure him, but she aborts the motion when she sees that her hands are pruned and wrinkled as though they’ve been under the water too long. 

“Henry,” she says, and she waits until she has his full attention before saying anything else. He looks at her; she knows he’s waiting for her to say something that will make it all better, but she doesn’t know what it is. “I really need you to go get Mary Margaret, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Henry nods, and Emma sighs, relieved, as he scampers off the bed and away. Emma is left alone, staring at her hands. 

Well, not entirely alone. 

She looks up, doesn’t even question how he got into her room, or why he’s there at all; she doesn’t care right now. 

“How is this even possible?” she asks. 

“Once Davy Jones claims your soul, darling, he always comes to collect,” he says with a slight shrug of his shoulders, but he isn’t looking at her. 

“You’re making that up,” she snaps back at him, her hands gripping at her quilt so tightly that her knuckles have gone white, and she thinks, maybe, this is a panic attack because she can’t breathe quite right and nothing feels likes it’s in the right place. 

“You’re making that up,” she says again, trying to calm her quickly fraying nerves. “You can’t lie to me remember? Tell me the truth, Killian.”

“Emotional distress, love,” he says, still not looking at her and his voice is so small and quiet that she almost lets him get away with avoiding her questions. 

“No. You do not get to pull that card with me. You know something. I can tell. What’s going on? Why do I keep dreaming about these horrible things?”

“Emma? Who are you talking to?” Mary Margaret walks into her bedroom, concern written all over her body. 

“Pirate,” she says. “One who won’t tell me what’s going on!”

“Emma, there’s no one here,” Mary Margaret looks around the room as if to satisfy herself of that conclusion, and Emma just stares at her. 

“Of course there is,” Emma says. “Killian’s right there. Hook for a hand, penchant for leather, heavy on the guy liner, and everything.”

Mary Margaret sucks in a surprised breath before walking over and curling herself up on the bed. She takes Emma’s hand, and holds it in her own. It’s warm and somehow reassuring even if it makes Emma uncomfortable. At least it stopped her own hand from trembling. 

“Oh Emma,” she says, and her eyes are shining as though she’s about to cry. “Killian can’t be here.”

And behind Mary Margaret, Emma sees Killian raise his hand and look at the two of them. He looks more lost than she’s ever seen him, and stripped of all his rogue bravado, he looks so much smaller than usual. It hurts, seeing him this way. 

“Of course he can. He _is_ ,” Emma says. 

“I know events like this are difficult, but, as you know, before we left Neverland—” Mary Margaret pauses, swallows audibly, and looks for a moment as though she would give anything not to say what she does next: “Before we left Neverland, he passed away.”

Everything stops. Emma can’t breathe, and even her heart seems to stutter to a halt. Two impossible things in one morning are far more than she can handle. 

So she says, “That’s impossible. He’s sitting right there.”

And she points to where Killian is sitting, looking at her with pain in his eyes. 

“Emma, I know the two of you were...close. I know this is hard, but Killian is dead,” Mary Margaret says more firmly, squeezing her hand, and Emma can’t take it anymore. She rips her hand away, and throws herself out of bed. Standing, at least, she doesn’t feel as though the world is falling down around her. 

“Why is everyone lying to me today?” Emma asks. It’s the only explanation. He can’t be dead and also be in her bedroom at the same time. She can’t accept that both are true so one is most certainly a lie. And she’s not crazy. So. 

So, her mother is lying to her. 

“I’m not lying to you,” Mary Margaret says. “Emma, don’t you remember?”

Emma just shakes her head. No! Of course she doesn’t remember. You can’t remember what never happened. 

“You were both in the water. The ocean was always warm in Neverland. It was a strange thing. But you were in the water together that day because you had fallen in during the battle. I’m not sure how. The waters...had some sort of magical properties. Killian never did explain what they did, but you wouldn’t come out of the water on your own. So he dove in after you, to bring you back to us. He got you to the rope, and we were pulling you both back up when—well, I’m still not sure exactly what happened. We think it was a mermaid, but something grabbed him, dragged him down. You were in no condition to go after him, Emma. We barely got you out of the water as it was, and by the time we had you back on deck, he was gone.”

Mary Margaret stopped for a moment, and Emma wanted to scream at her to stop, to just stop because if she finished the story then—

“He never came back up, Emma. And you did go back after him once you were in your right mind. Right back into the water, but you couldn’t find him. It was just too late.”

“That never happened. You’re wrong,” Emma says, but she remembers the dreams, the nightmares that have plagued her; she knows, deep in her heart, that it’s true. 

And Killian says, “She tells the truth, love.” 

His face is a mask, and Emma knows that look. She’s perfected that look over the years. It’s the look that means that it hurts too much to feel anymore. That’s how she knows it must be the truth. If it hurts that much for him to even say it then he can’t be lying. 

Her whole body is trembling, and she wishes fervently for someone to pop out and yell ‘just kidding’; anything to make this go away. 

“How can you be dead?” she asks, voice only a whisper, and she looks at him, knows that his pain is reflected in her eyes. She doesn’t know why she bothers to ask. She knows the answer: _because I didn’t save you_.

But he says, “Because I was a fool.”

“Emma,” Mary Margaret starts, and she has that worried lilt in her voice that makes Emma feel terrible. 

“I swear, he’s here. He’s sitting right there,” Emma says, and she points again to Killian with his slumped shoulders, weary head, and who has gone back to staring at the floor instead of looking at her. 

“I don’t see anyone,” Mary Margaret says. “But I know the death of a loved one can be traumatic, Emma, and there’s no shame in having a hard time coming to terms with his death. But, maybe, you should...talk to someone about this?”

“What? Like Dr. Hopper? No, thank you. I’m not crazy. He’s sitting right there. There’s obviously something magical going on here,” Emma insists, and she lights up because _of course_! It’s magic, and magic means that Killian isn’t dead. That’s the answer. 

“Magic cannot bring someone back from the dead, love,” Killian says, still looking at the floor, and she can’t stand that he won’t even look at her right now. So she marches over to him, reaches out to yank his chin upwards so that he’ll finally look at her, and her hand goes straight through, doesn’t meet skin, flesh, blood, or bone at all. 

The silence that falls over them all in that moment is so profound that Emma thinks she can hear the blood pumping through her heart and flowing through her veins. It’s proof that she’s alive, and she knows that if she tried to hear the same sound in him, she wouldn’t. He is the bloodless creature from her nightmare; he’s dead, at the bottom of some nameless sea in Neverland and he is also a ghost, a hallucination, a bit of make believe, sitting in her room and looking at her now with regret and something like affection. 

She licks her lips, remembers the feeling of dead flesh pressed against them, and she would give anything to even have that now because of all the moments in her life, watching her hand pass straight through his body is one of the most terrifying.

She feels like she’s been sucker punched. Once, twice, and any moment now her wobbly legs are going to give out and she’ll be on the floor. Down and out. But Mary Margaret’s hand is on her shoulder, her comforting voice is calling Emma’s name, and Killian is still looking at her like the world is ending. 

So Emma says, “Not now. I need...some time to think.”

She brushes Mary Margaret’s hand off of her shoulder, and she walks out the door without another word; she starts to run as soon as she hits the street because she’s Emma Swan, and Emma Swan always runs.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing that sinks in past the fog of pure panic in her mind is that her feet hurt. They sting each time they slap against the concrete of the sidewalk. The realization that she isn't wearing shoes, that she ran outside half dressed and with sleep still in her eyes might have brought her to a self-conscious halt, convinced her to crawl back home with her tail between her legs on any other day. As it is, she just keeps running, breathing in the damp morning air and ignoring the sea salt laced through it.

Her breathing is ragged, each and every intake makes her lungs burn, and she can't seem to ever get enough air to make it stop. Blood is hot under the skin on her face, just one more reminder of how she's living. Even her heart pounding, a drumming noise roaring inside her head, isn't enough to block out the mantra of: dead, dead, dead.

Still her feet carry her onwards, taking her as far away from her bedroom where a dead man watches her with sad eyes as they can, as if they believe that she can outrun something in her own head if she tries hard enough.

Storybrooke, however, is not endless. It's a trap with the number of paths she can use to run quickly dwindling. Sooner than she'd like, she is forced to stop. Sweat drips down her back as she doubles over, still panting, and she releases the cry that's been trying to escape from her throat all this time.

Third time's the charm, she thinks, bitterly, and she knows she's succumbing to hysteria when she finds herself caught between laughter and tears.

She straightens, looking around her with dismay as she realizes that she's at the docks because, naturally, the second to last place she wants to be right now is exactly where she ends up.

Her feet have a mind of their own this morning, and they propel her forward once again. She already knows where she's going this time: to find the Jolly Roger. It's not hard; she's the most prominent ship anchored in Storybrooke. Briefly she wonders why they bothered to keep her when he's dead.

Out of respect, she thinks. Considering the list of people who had actually liked him was ridiculously short and probably only included her name, Emma doesn't know why anyone would have cared. Still, she's grateful, and she walks on board, something in her heart easing at the familiar lines of the ship.

She wonders if the ship is lonely now that her Captain is dead. It looks lonely, anchored quietly in the water. That is also a trap, of course. He had always seemed lonely like she was, and she thought they understood each other. Really, though, he was just trying to lull her into a false sense of security before tumbling into the water and getting himself killed doing a stupid thing like saving her life.

It probably meant something that all the men who had ever cared to choose her were dead.

She cries then, on the deck of the Jolly Roger, and she vows that after this, she'll be done. She'll add him to the list of things she never thinks about and never talks about the way she did Tallahassee, the way she did Graham, and anything else that had ever made her heart ache even a little. It's easier that way.

\---

Forgetting is easier said than done.

He’s still there. He still follows her, but he doesn’t speak now. It’s as if something about her inability to look at him coupled with the tense set of her shoulders told him it wasn’t a good idea. Or, at least, she would think that if he were real. Which he isn’t. He’s in her head so he leaves her alone because that’s what she wants. He can’t do anything else, really. But he’s still there, and no matter how hard she tries, he won’t just disappear.

Her patience is wearing thin, and it’s difficult not to breakdown all over again especially since it’s her third day with no sleep. Her nightmares are worse now that she knows the truth behind them, and he dies every time she closes her eyes; every time she wakes up, she coughs up very real sea water, her skin clammy and cold. Everyone is worried she’ll drown in her sleep, and she’s been forbidden to close her eyes. David covers for her on active duty, and Mary Margaret restricts her to the apartment only. She’s trapped again.

She’s sitting on the couch, staring at the ceiling to avoid looking at the hallucination leaning against the wall opposite her. She hates that they’ve left her alone with him, but she can’t blame them. She has a wild look in her eyes these days, and she knows they are all treading on egg shells with her now. Have been since she returned from her temporary escape. 

Try as she might, she cannot keep her eyes open, and she’s hanging on the edge of sleep that she desperately needs when he finally speaks to her again.

“Emma, love, you need to wake up,” he says from his position against the wall.

Her eyes snap open, and she sits up only to glare at him. “You’re dead,” she says. She knew she would give in eventually. Ignoring him had never been easy for her.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks because she had wondered. Even if he is just a figment of her overactive imagination’s attempt to deal with a traumatic event—Mary Margaret’s words, not hers—he would still be privy to everything she knows. And apparently she lived through his death. So she should have known.

He narrows his eyes at her and frowns. The silence stretches between them, and she wonders if he’s trying to think of the right words or if he just doesn’t have an answer. Perhaps it is all one big game of ‘Guess What Killian Would Say If He Were Still Alive’ that she’s playing with herself. But she’s curious in spite of the situation because she’s not sure what her subconscious will spit out.

“It was simpler to pretend that I was still in the land of the living,” he says finally, and he tips his head back exposing the column of his throat as if he’s baring it to her, a sacrifice.

“Simpler for you, maybe,” she mumbles.

He looks at her again, and she can tell by the way his forehead draws together and the set of his mouth that he’s frustrated with her. Or she’s frustrated with herself. Either way.

“For a time, I did not realize that you didn’t know, love. You were there when...I shuffled off this mortal coil. How could you not know? And yet you remained blissfully ignorant of the entire event, and you treated me exactly the same as if I were alive. Why spoil a good thing?” He explains it to her, and his face clears, reforms itself into an emotionless mask; his voice, though, it betrays him as it shakes slightly, and nothing sounds as flippant as she’s sure he wanted it to.

“A good thing? That’s not what I would call this,” she says, and she motions between the two of them.

The door swings open just then, and Regina strides into the room, giving Emma a queer look.

“Is there some rule somewhere that means queens don’t have to knock?” Emma snaps, quickly dropping her hand, trying her best to look normal, to look sane.

“Miss Swan,” Regina begins, but she stops, looking around the room. Her eyes stop at the exact place where Killian is leaning against the wall, and Emma feels hope run through her like a bolt of lightning.

“Your hallucination, Miss Swan; is he here currently?” Regina asks, and Emma nods her head thinking: _please_.

“How tragic. I see you are still breathing, however, and thus my duty is complete. If you’ll excuse me,” Regina says, and she’s almost out the door again when Emma stands up and shouts her name.

“I can’t believe they put you on babysitting duty,” Emma says because she knows Regina saw something, sensed something, whatever, and she isn’t saying. So she needs Regina to stay.

Regina turns and stares stonily back at Emma. “You have Henry to thank for that.”

“I’ll have to remember to do that then. Because you saw something just now. Right where Killian is standing. What was it?”

“Nothing of consequence,” Regina replies, looking at her fingernails, and projecting an air of indifference that Emma knows she’s had many years to perfect. Emma’s not buying it though. She knows what she saw, and what she saw was the glimmer of recognition in Regina’s eyes when she looked at the place where Killian currently stands.

Emma finds herself repeating history because her temper is short, and she doesn’t have patience for Regina’s games, not today. So she launches herself at the other woman, pins her against the wall, and snarls at her.

“You saw something. What was it?”

Regina turns her head away, lets out a sigh, and then plucks Emma’s hands off of her blazer.

“Really Miss Swan, was that necessary?”

“Don’t make me ask again, Regina,” Emma warns.

Regina waves her hand in Killian’s direction. He hasn’t moved once since the confrontation started.

“There is...something there. Something magical, but I’m uncertain as to what it truly is,” Regina says.

Emma walks over to Killian’s side, indicates where he’s standing once more, and asks, “And it’s right here? You’re sure?”

Regina looks seconds away from rolling her eyes and turning someone into a toad, but she nods. “Yes, Miss Swan. There’s something magical right there. Are you satisfied?”

“What kind of something?”

“As I said, I have no idea.”

Emma throws her hands up in the air. What good was it to have a magical queen standing in front of her if she couldn’t answer questions about magical entities?

“Who would know then?” Emma asks.

“You could try asking Gold, but I highly doubt he would tell you anything. Not without asking for something in return, at any rate,” Regina says.

Emma nods. Suddenly, she has a plan, and maybe she isn’t crazy after all. These? They are all good things. They give her purpose, something to do other than attempt to resist the siren call of sleep and wallow. So she races past Regina and towards the door. “Okay then, let’s go!”

“Go where you like, Miss Swan. I am not going with you,” Regina says, walking past Emma and out into the hallway.

Emma grabs the woman’s arm, and yanks her down the hallway with her. “Oh yes you are, Regina. You are going to make sure that whatever Gold tells me is the truth,” Emma says, and she doesn’t let Regina’s sleeve go until they are well on their way to Gold’s pawn shop. As soon as she can trust that they’ve come far enough that Regina won’t simply bolt when she lets go, Emma releases her sleeve.

Regina straightens her blazer, shoots Emma a look of utter contempt, but she keeps walking beside her, heels clicking on the side walk.

Gotcha, Emma thinks with a smile.

Without looking, Emma knows Killian has followed them. Whatever he is—and she is so incredibly thankful that he isn’t just a hallucination—she knows he’s interested in the answer as much as she is.

So they walk into Gold’s shop three strong, and Emma is certain she’ll have her answers. The little bell that rings as the door opens gives her a strange feeling of hope.

The curtain covering the back of the shop opens and Gold walks out, his face neutral until he realizes who has walked into his shop; then he sneers. “I don’t believe I sell anything you’d be interested in, dearies. Perhaps you’d be better off shopping elsewhere.”

“Not so fast, Gold,” Emma says as Gold begins to retreat back behind the curtain. “I want answers, and I think you have them.”

Gold turns back to face her, places his hands slowly and carefully onto the counter, rests them palm down, and he looks over her shoulder, straight at Killian.

“I believe you’ve been misled, Miss Swan,” he says with a placid smile.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. What do you know, Gold?”

He cocks his head, and looks at her for a moment; then he’s all business. “That depends on how much you’re willing to pay.”

Emma clenches her teeth, and she tries really hard not to grab his shirt and slam his head into the counter. Between him and Regina radiating smugness beside her, she barely manages to bite out, “What do you want?”

Behind her, she hears Killian move forward, knows he can’t touch her, but that he wants her attention. She refuses to look at him because she knows he just wants to tell her not to make a deal with the devil. Like she doesn’t already know it’s a bad idea.

“No,” Regina says suddenly. “We have no guarantee that you have the information we need, and without that, there’s no deal.”

Emma looks at Regina, eyes wide, surprised that they’ve suddenly become a ‘we’. She had counted on piquing Regina’s curiosity enough to get her to stay but not on her support.

Killian chuckles from behind her. “You don’t give your queen nearly enough credit, love.”

Emma wants to tell him to shut up, but she doesn’t want to give too much away in case Gold doesn’t already know.

“Regina’s right,” Emma says. “You talk or I arrest you.”

“On what charge?” Gold asks, simply.

“I’ll invent one,” Emma says, and she places her hands on the counter beside his, gets into his space. She’s the product of true love and she has the evil queen by her side; right now, he needs to be afraid of her.

Belle parts the curtains and steps out to join them, her expression full of apprehension. Emma wonders how much she’s heard from the back room.

“What’s going on?” Belle asks, putting her hand on Gold’s shoulder and leaning into him.

“Unwanted visitors,” Gold says, and he glares at them all, pleasant shop keeper completely gone now.

“Perhaps you should simply give them what they came for, hmm?” Bella suggests with a smile and a wink for Emma.

“It’s the least you could do for the Sheriff. She did put herself between danger and me, after all. She saved my life,” Belle continues.

“I saved your life,” Gold growls under his breath, but Emma can tell that Belle has convinced him.

Gold looks at her, eyes narrowed, and he says, “Your pirate isn’t dead.”

Emma blinks. Once. Twice. And after the third time, she asks, “What?”

“How insensitive of me,” Gold says with a cruel twist of his mouth, “to drop such information on you while you are still in shock.”

“You bastard,” Emma says, seething. “You better not be lying to me.”

“I assure you, I am not. Your pirate is alive, barely. His shadow clings to you like an infant to its mother,” Gold spits out, eyes full of disdain as he looks at her and Killian in turn.

“How is that possible?” Regina asks.

“Magic, of course. A particular brand of magic you can only find in Neverland, but magic nevertheless,” Gold replies.

“Can we bring him back?” Emma asks, and she hates the way her voice comes out: high and breathless. Desperate.

Gold looks at her for a long moment as if he’s looking into her soul. She holds her breath, waiting for him to crush any last remnant of hope she has left and yet still clinging to the possibility that the spectre behind her is her Killian after all.

“Perhaps,” Gold says with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Emma does grab his coat and haul him halfway over the counter then. Even Belle’s distress doesn’t quell her temper. “Tell. Me.”

“Touchy, aren’t we, Miss Swan?” Gold says, and he hits her with a blast of magic that sends her barrelling backwards onto the floor. “Do not attempt to man handle me again.”

“If we can bring him back, you have to tell me. Please,” Emma says, pleading with him now because her pride left her around about the time she began thinking she was crazy and hasn’t had a chance to return just yet.

“I don’t have to tell you anything, Miss Swan, but as I am both kind and benevolent,” he grins wickedly as he says it and Regina snorts elegantly at the mere idea, “I will direct you to the woman who will tell you what you wish to know.”

Emma nods, and Gold looks down his nose at her sitting on the floor with the afternoon sun streaming in and lighting her up from behind. “The woman you want is called Ursula. I believe you two are already acquainted.”

Emma groans and weighs the pros and cons of banging her head repeatedly against the floor since she’s already down there.

“Perhaps she is no longer angry with us,” Belle suggests.

“Doubt it,” Emma says, and she looks at Killian who stands over her now but casts no shadow on the ground.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

Killian shrugs. “Don’t be, love.”

Regina lifts an eyebrow at the exchange, seeing only one side of it, but Emma doesn’t care how crazy she looks right now. She has a lot to apologize for, she thinks.

“If you’ll get up off the floor, Miss Swan,” Regina says, “perhaps we might be able to concoct a plan to force Ursula to comply.”

Emma stares incredulously at Regina for the second time in the space of mere minutes. “You want to help?”

Regina sniffs. “I was fond of the Captain.”

“And she hates Ursula,” Killian chimes in, and Emma nods. Killian’s reasoning seems sounder. Revenge is right up Regina’s alley. Emma is only glad it is going to work to her benefit this time.

“Kindly remove yourselves from my shop before this goes any further,” Gold says, pointing toward the door. So Emma hauls herself up off the ground, and she follows Regina out the door, making sure to hold it open for Killian to follow behind them.

On the sidewalk, Emma stops and looks at Regina. “So what exactly did you have in mind?”


	7. Chapter 7

“It won’t be clean,” Regina says, and something flickers in her eyes. It’s faint but definitely there, and Emma can tell she’s remembering something, probably something awful given the things she knows about Regina.

But perhaps she’s remembering her promise to Henry, and she’s worried Emma will use this magical relapse against her. She thinks about reassuring Regina for all of a second before she realizes that Regina wouldn’t want to hear it even if there was a snowball’s chance in hell she’d believe it.

Instead she asks, “Will Ursula be in pain?”

“Most likely,” Regina replies, and this time her face is completely impassive, the face of a woman who had held a lost boy in a magical death grip and hadn’t flinched even once.

So Emma asks, “But it’s necessary?” because that’s her job. She’s the saviour, and she thinks taking the moral high road is what she’s supposed to do, making sure every time they toe the line, it’s for the greater good.

Of course, that’s likely what Belle thought when she’d gotten involved with Ursula to begin with, and a little part of Emma worries that this isn’t just toeing the line; it’s crossing it. Necessary, after all, isn’t always right. She can see Killian out of the corner of her eye, and as though he can feel her gaze, he turns to look at her like she’s the only woman in the world; he had a knack for that, honing in on someone and making them the center of his universe for that split second. Having that gaze focused on you feels like you’re burning up and coming home all at the same time. At least, that’s what it feels like to her, and that’s why she knows in her gut that, without a doubt, this time it’s both necessary and right. She isn’t going to let him down. Not when it’s her fault that he’s...well, whatever he is.

Regina smirks at her. “We could attempt to reason with her beforehand if that would make you more comfortable, Miss Swan.”

Killian is still looking at her, and she turns to face him, meeting his gaze dead on with a calm, steady look of her own. She wonders if her gaze feels as good to him as his does to her? She wants, at the very least, the chance to ask, to know. And in this moment, she feels like she’ll do anything to take that chance even let Regina do what Regina does best. 

“No,” she says. “We do what we have to do to get her to talk.”

There’s something like appreciation in the twist of Regina’s mouth as she say, “Very well then.”

“What is this master plan then?” Killian asks before Emma has a chance to ask for herself. She relays the question to Regina who simply smiles for a moment as though the question is somehow the best joke she’s heard in a long while.

Then she says, “She talks, or I take her heart.”

“That...really isn’t a plan, Regina,” Emma says.

“Even if it were, it is not a plan I am comfortable with,” Killian says from beside her, and at his side, his hand is clenched tightly into a fist.

“Do either of you have a better plan?” Regina asks once Emma shares Killian’s comment with her, shaking her head and twisting her mouth into a displeased frown.

Emma takes a deep breath. She hates it when Regina is right. She doesn’t have a better plan, and if Killian’s silence is anything to go by, he doesn’t either. How can they when they both know that there’s no chance Ursula will be in any mood to help them? They’d rather thoroughly wrecked whatever plans she had when they’d released the voices she had stored up and severed her supply of instant health and beauty. 

“Fine,” Emma says, and she can feel Killian looking at her so she avoids his gaze. “It’s the only plan we’ve got so it’s the best one. We’ll make do. When can you be ready, Regina?”

“Now if you like, Miss Swan,” Regina says, and she walks out of the alley they’d taken refuge in to plan.

“Good,” Emma says, following her, and she looks over her shoulder once, meets Killian’s gaze, and he shakes his head before following her. It’ll be alright, Emma thinks, and she has never wanted to hold someone’s hand so badly in her life.

\---

The beach is grey and cold; bitter wind sends the salty air running down her spine. They’re all underdressed for the storm that seems to be building on the horizon, and Emma isn’t the only one who shivers in the wet chill.

Ursula’s home stands in the distance, and a thunderhead gathers above it as though predicting their doom. Emma’s never been one to pay attention to signs or prophecy—until recently, that is—but even she feels dread accumulating in her stomach the same way electricity is gathering in the air. Ursula knows they’re coming, and Emma glances at the sea out of the corner or her eye, remembering how it felt to be caught amongst those very same waves after her last visit to Ursula’s lair. It was an experience she would rather not repeat.

“Worried, Miss Swan?” Regina asks, walking ever so slightly in front of her.

“Yeah,” Emma says, “About you double crossing us once we get in there.”

“Tempting as that sounds, Miss Swan, I’m afraid you will simply have to trust that I hate Ursula more than I hate you right now,” Regina says, giving Emma a look over her shoulder.

Emma opens her mouth to reply, but a particularly strong gust of wind carries away any thought of a witty response and carries with it the high, croaking sound of laughter. Emma stops, looking up at the darkening sky, and she listens.

“What is it now?” Regina says, whirling around and tapping her foot, sending little sprays of sand flying with the impact.

“Did you hear that?” Emma asks, and the wind gusts along the beach, now bringing with it the sound of chanting. She can hear it loud in her ears as the wind howls by.

“Hear what, Miss Swan?” Regina rolls her eyes, and Emma glares right back at her until she suddenly decides that it is a waste of time. She needs to get to Ursula’s house immediately, and her feet don’t wait for her to tell them what to do; they carry her quickly away from Regina and Killian without her permission.

The chanting is louder now like it’s inside her own head, and it ricochets from one side of her skull to the other. The tempo matches her strides across the sand. Somewhere, distantly, she hears Regina calling out to her as though the queen is under water and a long way away. Killian’s voice is even farther away when he calls her name, and she pays them no mind. Ursula’s house is just a little farther, and she can see the steps now. That’s all that matters.

The chanting builds to a roar now, triumphant as she begins climbing the stairs and even louder, if possible, when her gloved hand reaches for the doorknob, turns it, and—

Hands jerk her away from the door and push her backwards. Regina moves to stand in front of the door, with her hands on her hips and her dark lips twisted into a snarl.

“Are you deaf as well as dumb, Miss Swan?”

“Regina? What...?” Emma flounders, leaning against the banister because her legs feel a little like jelly, and Killian’s presence behind her—she sees the flickering of his coat in the wind—is comforting but incapable of holding her up right now.

“Ursula has a particularly enchanting voice,” Regina says, looking closely at Emma as if checking for any residual magic.

“Yeah, I remember. It happened again, didn’t it?” Emma closes her eyes, and she can hear restless, desperate chanting at the back of her mind. She pushes it away, not without effort, and then stands up straight. “I’m fine now. Thanks.”

“Try not to make a habit of it,” Regina says, turning her nose up and then away as she faces the door, once more taking the lead.

Regina opens the door slowly, and Emma peers into the gloom of Ursula’s home with trepidation that her slow footsteps mirror. Inside it’s just as cold as the beach outside, but the air is still. It feels like they are walking through soup, like time has been suspended. Regina, Emma can see, is scowling and looking at her hands as she twists them around in the air. Between her palms she creates a little ball of light, but it flickers weakly as though a wicked wind threatens to snuff it out.

“She has muted the use of magic in her home. Smart witch,” Regina mutters, and Emma looks back at Killian, gasps at what she sees.

He had always looked solid to her before, completely real, alive, and human. But now she can see straight through him as though he were made of some translucent material. He flickers just like Regina’s light, his sad eyes disappearing and reappearing as she tries to catch his gaze with her own.

“Killian?” she whispers, walking backwards to him.

“I think, perhaps, it would be better if I waited outside. Don’t you think, love?” Killian says, and his lopsided smile flickers as wind howls against the house.

“Maybe,” Emma says, but when she tries to open the front door for him, the door refuses to budge. Regina makes her way over, tries the door herself, but curses when her luck is no better.

“She knew we were coming,” Regina says.

Emma feels a drop of water fall on her head, and it’s followed by several more. It’s raining. Inside. On all three of them. It starts coming down in torrents all around them, soaking the floorboards of the room they’re standing in, and Emma shouts at Regina over the steady sound of rain drops on wooden floor boards: “What do we do?”

Regina points forward, toward the heart of the house. “It isn’t raining over there.”

“We’re being herded,” Killian says, his dark hair plastered to his face, and his eyes turning to dark, gaping holes as he continues to flicker in and out in the shadows.

“With the way out blocked, forward is our only choice,” Emma says with a nod toward Regina, and they move forward together, careful of slipping in the rain.

The rain grows quiet and finally stops as they make their way farther into Ursula’s home, and Emma’s teeth start to chatter in the growing cold, her hair falling in wet clumps around her face and doing nothing to help warm her. Regina hums a little and nods her head toward a light flickering in the hallway up ahead of them.

“Everybody ready for this?” Emma asks, her voice low as she casts her eyes around her. Regina nods, looking fierce and unafraid, and Killian winks at her as though he were alive instead of the dead man she knows him to be. They’re as ready as they are ever going to be.

And Ursula is waiting for them. The room, definitely a bedroom, is cozy and warm. A fire dances behind a metal grate, and Emma would gladly sit down in front of it if she weren’t currently on a mission inside the house of a deadly sea witch. The bed is piled high with blankets, and Emma can’t tell if Ursula is beneath them or not until a single white, bony hand appears, beckoning her forward with the crook of a finger.

Emma starts forward, but Regina grabs the back of her jacket, curling her fingers around the fabric, and yanking Emma backwards.

“Do you ever learn?” Regina hisses in Emma’s ear, and Emma sighs because she just wants this to be over with, wants Killian back where he belongs and alive, and Regina doesn’t understand even if Regina is right.

“Heroes never learn,” Ursula croaks from her bed, her voice scratchy and rough like sandpaper instead of the sleek musical utterances Emma remembers. It matches the woman Emma can see now. The sea witch has shrunk, her skin curling up and wrinkling around the edges. She’s pale and thin. So thin that Emma thinks she could see every bone in Ursula’s body because there’s only a thin stretch of skin that barely manages to hold her insides where they belong.

The eyes, though, they are the same, and they are narrowed into sharp, wicked slits as they stare out at Emma, and the grin, full of sharks teeth, is the same too.

“Neither do villains, it would seem,” Regina says. “You know why we’re here, Ursula.”

Ursula laughs, and it is the same giddy sound Emma heard on the wind earlier. “Yes, I know.”

Emma pulls her gun from her holster, and she points it at Ursula. “Then you know I’m going to do whatever it takes to get you to talk.”

Ursula waves her bony hand, and Emma finds her gun, once again, turned into a slimy, slippery eel in her hand. That, she should have expected.

Regina smirks at her, and Emma can see that she wants to laugh. So Emma sighs, and she kicks the eel behind her. “I don’t need my gun to take you out, Ursula. Enough with the magic tricks. Talk. Now.”

“I see no reason that I should. You’ve taken everything from me, and now I am going to take something precious from you,” Ursula says, and with a wave of her hand, the blankets covering her vanish. Underneath are gnarled sticks that might have once been legs, but there was no way they would carry weight now. They, like Ursula’s skin, have become shrunken husks of what they used to be.

“I can give you one very good reason to talk, witch,” Regina says, walking forward with her fingers curled like claws. Ursula does nothing, simply looks at Regina as she advances, and gasps quietly when Regina plunges her hand into her chest.

“If you kill me, you’ll never know how to bring back your pirate,” Ursula says, her voice choked off as Regina squeezes her heart.

“Regina, stop,” Emma says, holding out her hand. Regina purses her lips, and glares at Emma before removing her hand. Emma shakes her head in apology, and then she looks at Ursula.

“Then tell me, and I won’t let Regina kill you,” Emma says, slowly, and even she winces a little at the words. It’s the first time she’s ever made a death threat. Threats of violence, she’s used to, but she’s never...

“You won’t kill me either way, hero,” Ursula says, wheezing out laughter again.

“Don’t bet on it,” Emma says, and she looks at Killian for a moment. Would she kill for this man? She thinks, maybe, she would. He’s certainly done enough for her, and she owes him her life.

“My life isn’t worth that, love,” Killian says softly as though he'd read her mind. “If she won’t reveal her secrets to us then we go. I know how it feels to have blood on my hands, Emma. You don’t want that, and certainly not for me.”

Emma shakes her head. “I think you might be worth it.”

“Enough chit chat,” Regina says, plunging her hand back into Ursula’s chest. “Tell us what we need to know, or I’ll do worse than kill you.”

Outside, thunder rumbles, and Ursula arches up into Regina’s hand, her face taut with pain. Emma steps forward with her hand out, and she grips Ursula’s hand in her own.

“I have to know,” Emma whispers, and she feels tears gather at her eyes as she looks down at Ursula’s face.

“Fine,” Ursula spits out. Regina releases Ursula’s heart, Emma can tell, because Ursula’s face relaxes as the pain recedes.

“That was easier than expected,” Regina says, looking down at Ursula suspiciously.

Ursula smirks up at them both. “Oh, I always intended to tell you. My revenge will be much sweeter if I tell you.”

Emma’s forehead wrinkles as she trades a glance with Regina who looks equally as baffled. “Then why go through all of this?”

“To see how far you’d go,” Ursula says, looking at Emma, and Emma swallows, her mouth suddenly very dry.

“You’ll have to cross more lines than that if you want to save your love, hero,” Ursula says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Emma’s ear. “He’s clinging to you, his shade. It latched onto your magic because it knew you’d harbor it. It knew you cared about it. Could feel it through the water. Water amplifies these things, you know.”

Emma keeps her eyes trained on Ursula, afraid that if she looks away, Ursula will stop talking, and even more afraid that if she looks away, she’ll find Killian waiting for her, his eyes reading the truth on her heart. It’s a truth she’s avoided for a long time now, and it’s sitting right behind her eyes, dredged up by the rain and the thunder and Ursula’s dry as bone voice. If she looks now, he’ll see, and she isn’t sure if she’s ready for him to know.

“If you didn’t love him, he wouldn’t be here now. And because you love him, you can save him,” Ursula says, and then she points to a book open on the desk in the far corner of the room where the firelight could barely reach. “Everything you need is right there in those pages, if you’re willing to do whatever it takes.”

Emma stands, avoids looking at anyone else in the room, follows the floor with her eyes, and she finally stops in front of the desk. The book is open, it’s parchment yellowed with age, and the black ink flowing across it, a dance of beautiful calligraphy. Emma hesitantly holds out a hand, takes a breath, and then she runs her fingers down the page, reading bits of sentences and odd words as she goes.

“It’s a spell,” she says, and she picks up the book to have a closer look.

“It will save your pirate, hero. If you pay its price,” Ursula says.

“What is the price?” Emma asks, turning around and glancing briefly at Killian and Regina on opposites sides of the room before looking down at Ursula once more.

Ursula smiles, full of malice, and says, “It’ll turn your heart black. It will stain you forever. You’ll be tainted goods, hero.”

Emma looks at Regina for a moment because if anyone knows what that’s like, it’s the Evil Queen. Regina looks steadily back at her, offering nothing that Emma can take comfort in. Figures. Emma looks back at Ursula. “Is that all?”

“Emma—” Killian begins, but Ursula cuts him off.

“As for you pirate,” she starts, getting Killian’s attention, and when he looks at her, she laughs. “Did you think it would only scar her? Oh no, you’ll pay the price as well. Once she blackens her own heart for you, you’ll be marked. When you die for good, you won’t go to the spirit world. You’ll go somewhere else. You’ll be alone for eternity; you’ll never see your love again. That is the price of this spell. Tell me now, will you pay it?”

Emma looks at Killian for a long time, tries to interpret what his eyes are telling her to do, but she can’t tell. She can’t tell, and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do. She wants him alive and in front of her so she can hide from him, kiss him, tell him everything, tell him nothing, something. But she’s not sure that the price is worth her being selfish. How can she demand he give up his chance at the afterlife when she doesn’t know what she wants from him?

Regina clears her throat. “We’ve gotten what we came for so I suggest we leave now.”

Emma nods, and she looks at Ursula one last time. The sea witch lies on her bed immobile with her shrunken stick legs and her too thin skin and her evil grin. Emma clutches the spell book to her chest, and she keeps her eyes on Ursula until she and Killian are both out of the room and following Regina down the hallway and out of the house.

The storm has died down, but in the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance, Emma can still hear the chanting in her head, and she looks at Killian, standing on the sea shore, hoping that together they can make the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks! Life got a little intense for a few weeks. I'm hoping to get the last few chapters to you pretty quickly though. Fingers crossed!


	8. Chapter 8

"I don't know, Emma. It sounds dangerous," Mary Margaret says, picking at the hem of her sweater. "Blackening your heart...can have serious consequences."

 

"Regina's still kicking around so those consequences can't be too terrible," Emma argues. Her parents had been waiting for her when she returned from her trip down to the sea shore, and while they certainly seemed relieved to know she wasn't crazy, they were still none too happy with her plan to save Killian.

 

Mary Margaret looks up at Emma and frowns. "Emma, Regina is always-- always \--fighting that darkness in her heart. Do you really want to go through that?"

 

Emma looks over at Killian, standing by the window and ignoring the family pow wow behind him. She sighs. "The way I see it," she begins, locking gazes with her mother, "I don't have a choice. It's a small sacrifice to make to save the man who practically died saving me. I owe him. And even if I didn't...it would still be the right thing to do. It would still be what the Savior had to do."

 

Mary Margaret is quiet for a time, and Emma feels nervous because, this is her friend and, more importantly, her mother, and her opinion matters. The nervous feeling in her gut that signals this is still foreign to Emma, and she has to keep herself from squirming like a guilty schoolgirl where she sits.

 

"What about what  he wants?" Mary Margaret says quietly, glancing quickly around the room as though searching for Killian's invisible figure. "Didn't you say there were consequences from him too?"

 

Emma opens her mouth, but closes it with a snap. Mary Margaret is right. She looks over at Killian again and jumps a little when she finds he has turned away from the window and is looking right back at her. He arches an eyebrow in her direction.

 

“You can’t...be with the people you love in the afterlife,” Emma says slowly, and he shrugs.

 

“My soul belongs to the sea, love. She’s the only afterlife for me, spell or no spell.”

 

“I don’t believe in an afterlife,” Emma says.

 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Killian replies. “What does surprise me is your nonchalance about your heart. I agree with your mother. It’s too dangerous. You needn’t risk it, especially not for me.”

 

“I think you’re forgetting that it’s my choice,” Emma says, narrowing her eyes. She’s going to fight on this because, damn it, she doesn’t see what the big deal is. It isn’t as though she’s been Miss Perfect her whole life. She’s stolen things. She’s bullied people. She gave away her son, and that...well, that had to stain her heart black just a little, didn’t it? A little more black around the edges isn’t a big problem from her perspective.

 

“Indeed, it is, love, but I won’t have you endangering yourself on my behalf. Not if I can persuade you otherwise,” Killian says.

 

Emma lifts the spell book off the table and into her lap. “Yeah, well, my mind’s made up. So unless you have any other issues, we’re doing this.”

 

He holds her gaze for a long moment, and she can see the storm raging in his eyes. Part of her is a little mushy over the fact that he’s so torn up about protecting her, but the bigger part of her is equal parts angry and determined. She’s bringing him back come hell or high water.

 

“So, this is what we’re going to need...”

 

\---

 

Emma knocks on Regina’s front door, steps back, and crosses her arms over her chest as she looks at Killian out of the corner of her eye. He has that look about him like he’d rather be somewhere else, like he might just bolt at any second, and she recognizes that look because how many times in her life had she felt the same way? How many times had she run? But she’s almost certain that, despite his discomfort, he’ll be staying exactly where he is.  This is complicated and too emotionally charged an observation for the current hour of the morning while waiting for an evil queen to open her front door and look at them like they are bugs to be crushed under her perfectly color-coordinated heels and as the door swings open that is exactly what Regina does.

 

“Whatever it is, Miss Swan, the answer is almost certainly no,” Regina says before Emma even has a chance to open her mouth, and Killian huffs out a tiny laugh. If she wasn’t so hell bent on getting Regina to agree with her current plan, she would turn around to glare Killian into submission. Instead she lets his reaction—born of the fact that he had predicted Regina would shoot them down—pass.

 

“Regina, who else can I ask about magic? I need your expertise on this,” Emma says, hoping that maybe a little flattery will soften Regina’s glare.

 

It does seem to leave Regina flummoxed momentarily, but, as always, she pulls herself together in the blink of an eye. Emma would have missed the slip if she hadn’t been looking for it.

 

“You have questions about Ursula’s spell,” Regina states.

 

“Yeah, I do,” Emma says, and Regina sighs, the irritated expulsion of air saying more than words ever could. But she opens the door wider and motions Emma inside.

 

Now that she’s got her opening, she jumps right in for the kill. “One of the ingredients we need...we were hoping you could provide.”

 

Regina narrows her eyes. “What is this ingredient exactly, dear?”

 

“Um,” Emma says, and she sticks her gloved hand into the pocket of her coat, has trouble finding the slip of paper, but finally pulls it out, triumphantly, before handing it to Regina. Emma watches as she takes the crumpled piece of paper in two fingers and unfolds it as though something might jump out as bite her. Regina scans the list, and Emma knows when she hits on the ingredient they need because her eyes narrow even further.

 

Regina looks up at Emma. “As I said, dear, the answer is no.”

 

“Oh come on, Regina! It’s not like we’re asking for all your blood. Just a little bit. What’s the big deal?”

 

“The big deal?” Regina asks, her voice hissing out between her teeth, “The big deal, Miss Swan, is that this is a dark spell. If I give you my blood for it, I’ll be tangled up in it. I have no interest in being a party to that. Who knows how it might affect me?”

 

“Regina, this isn’t about you,” Emma says, throwing out her hands in a pleading gesture. “This is about saving someone’s life.”

 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Miss Swan,” Regina says, with a roll of her eyes. She crumples up the paper in her hands and throws it back at Emma with a perfect flick of her wrist. Her hands free, she crosses her arms over her chest and gives Emma a speculating look. “There is another donor you might consider.”

 

“Really?” Emma asks, surprise showing on her face. Killian didn’t have many fans, and even though she knows he has a semi-loyal crew of pirates out there somewhere, Killian had confessed that, aside from Smee who was unlikely to get tangled up in this magic business, he wasn’t sure where any of them were. David had volunteered, but Killian had been quick to shoot him down, and though Emma had suggested Neal, Killian had refused that option as well. Though she found his protestations of honor and family kind of ridiculous, Emma had let it slide. She hadn’t had the energy to keep fighting with him over the issue.

 

So they were left with two possible willing—which was absolutely necessary for the spell according to the book—blood donors: Emma, who was taken out of the running by her need to be the one performing the spell and Regina, who had claimed to like Killian. And with Regina turning them down, Emma was certain their well had run dry.

 

But the expression on Regina’s face gave Emma renewed hope.

 

“Who is it?” Emma asks.

 

Regina’s mouth curves into an evil smile. “Rumpelstiltskin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this update was half a year in coming, huh? Ahem. Right. I have no good explanation for the hiatus except for my lack of inspiration. Thank you to everyone who inquired after this fic during that long stretch of time. This chapter, brief though it is, is dedicated to you. And also to my beta, [homeskull_bob](http://archiveofourown.org/users/homeskull_bob/pseuds/homeskull_bob), for her tireless efforts and death glares in response to me not writing. Cheers!


	9. Chapter 9

Rather suddenly a hole appears in the ground where there wasn’t only moments before, and that is just like this island: changeable and frankly as annoying as its so called king.

 

She doesn’t have time to react to the hole; so the ground swallows her up and Gold right along with her, and she hits solid earth hard enough to make her wince and lose her breath.

 

She levers herself into a sitting position, moaning and cradling the back of her head in the palm of her hand. Her fingers tangle in her hair, and she doesn’t feel any blood. But if she has a concussion, well, she isn’t quite sure what she would do. Perhaps magic can help her out for once instead of ruining her life.

 

“Gold?” She calls, but a glance over shows him still lying prone. He doesn’t stir at the sound of her voice.

 

“Damn it,” she curses, and then carefully, and not without a little pain, crawls over to his side. “You better not be dead.”

 

She places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a shake. He groans and his eyes flicker open. For one moment, they glow a terrifying bright gold before they dull back to a normal—human—shade clouded with pain.

 

“You alright?” She asks.

 

“Do stop shouting, Miss Swan. I can hear you perfectly well from here,” he replies, his hand fluttering in midair as though he had a purpose for moving it but can’t quite recall what it is. He lets it hang in the air a moment, and then with a little growl, drops it back to the ground.

 

“I’m not yelling,” she says, choosing to ignore his surly tone and lowering her voice because she can empathize with his no doubt pounding head. She leans against the side of the hole and looks up at the night sky. “We fell.”

 

“Yes. How clever of you to notice,” Gold snaps, his teeth clinking together as he closes his mouth tightly.

 

“Well, can you get us out?” she asks, and she ignores the glare he sends her way because it is a perfectly logical question given his flashy magical powers.

 

If she’d fallen down a hole with Regina, she wouldn’t even have had to ask the question; the former evil queen would have jumped at the chance to magic them out of their predicament.

 

“Feel the air, Miss Swan,” Gold says after a moment of silence.

 

“What?” Maybe he’d hit his head a bit harder than she’d originally thought.

 

“The air around you,” Gold repeats, and his hand is up off the ground again, waving impatiently at her to keep up. “Does it seem oppressive?”

 

Emma is still for a minute as she tries her best to “feel” the air around her, and she gasps when she actually can. It’s close against her skin—no surprise there; humidity is at a constant high in Neverland much to her displeasure—but more importantly, something about it seems to pinch at her, diminish her somehow.

 

“Yeah, actually. How did you know?”

 

“That is an absence of magic,” Gold says.

 

Emma purses her lips and thinks for a long moment because there’s a lot of subtext in Gold’s simple declaration as per usual.

 

“So...what you’re saying is: we’re stuck?” she ventures, mentally crossing her fingers that he’s making the whole thing up just to spook her.

 

But when he says “precisely”, her hopes are dashed.

 

“Great,” she says.

 

“Ah, if only we had a savior,” he says, an ugly undercurrent to his dry sarcasm.

 

She glares at him but stays silent. If this island has proven anything definitively, it is that she is and never has been any kind of ultimate savior. Everything so far has needed a team, and she’s not complaining on that front at all. She’s adapted to being a lone wolf but running with a pack has been surprisingly...comforting. And speaking of the pack...

 

“Well, the rest of them are still out there. They’ll find us. At the very least, Regina will get tired of dealing with Mary Margaret and David on her own and wonder where we are, or...” she says but trails off, unwilling to continue.

 

Gold, ever perceptive, finishes her sentence for her: “Or perhaps your pirate will rescue you, dearie?”

 

His eyes, when she meets them, are cruel, and if he wasn’t in such a bad way already, she’d punch him.

 

Instead she says, “Even if I wanted him to—which I would considering we are stuck down here in a dark hole with no escape and imminent death in our future—he wouldn’t come. He probably won’t even notice that we’re gone. Or if he does, he’ll only stop long enough to be thankful that this island has finally done you in for him.”

 

She considers for a moment that, perhaps, that little bit of rambling was her protesting too much, but again, imminent death in her future so it wouldn’t really matter in the long run. It wasn’t as if Gold really cared about what her feelings for Captain Hook were anyway.

 

She gives the man an assessing look and frowns at the smirk playing at the edges of his mouth as he says, “Perhaps.”

 

She takes a deep breath, remembers that she can’t punch him, and then she asks, “Are you hanging in there?”

 

There is silence and then a heavy sigh before Gold answers, “I shall live providing we find a way back to the surface.”

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, and she carefully rises to her feet, pausing to wait out the dizzy spell that rushes through her the moment she’s completely vertical. Once it passes, she begins to look around for anything they might use to escape from this hole.

 

A vine for rope, conveniently placed rocks they can climb, anything.

 

But there’s nothing except for densely packed dirt walls and the faint strains of light from the moonlight filtering through the clouds. If she could walk on moonbeams...

 

She snorts to herself. Not gonna happen.

 

Time passes differently in Neverland in that it doesn’t seem to move at all, and there is no sun to guide her. Everything is shrouded in endless twilight. She can’t be sure how long they’ve been trapped. She and Gold are quiet except for his labored breathing and her occasional query about how he feels. If he dies on her, she’ll be pissed.

 

She cocks her head and listens with narrowed eyes; then she reaches out with her foot to nudge at Gold. He blinks wearily at her.

 

“Do you hear that?” she asks.

 

In the silence, they listen together, and the sound comes again. And what it sounds like is her name. It’s faint, but it is definitely there. She clenches her teeth together in an attempt to crush the rising swell of hope that threatens. She’s not going to count out the possibility that she’s hallucinating. She hasn’t eaten in awhile, any sleep she’s gotten has come in fits and starts, and she definitely hit the ground hard when she fell. Considering all that, her mind could easily be playing tricks on her.

 

Anyway, aside from Henry, no one has ever found her before, and she doesn’t quite believe they’d start now. Besides half of her hopes that Regina has convinced them all to forget about her in favor of completing the mission they’d come to Neverland for: saving Henry. She feels a slight pain in her chest at the thought of her son.

 

Then the noise comes again. It really is her name, and she recognizes that voice.

 

“Hook!” she calls back, scrambling up off the ground and looking up at the mouth of the hole. Soon after, his face appears over the lip of the hole, and he smirks at her.

 

“Gotten yourself into more trouble, Swan?”

 

“Don’t gloat; get us out of here,” she snaps right back, but she’s grinning at him because she is more than a little relieved to see his face.

 

“Us?” he asks.

 

“Gold fell down with me,” she says.

 

“And he couldn’t do the gentlemanly thing and magic you both out?” Hook raises an eyebrow and frowns as he looks around the darkened hole for Gold.

 

“This is a magic free hole, apparently. So no can do,” Emma explains. “Throw down some rope or something?”

 

“I can do better than that,” another voice says, and then Regina is peering down at Emma through the gloom as well. “You might be magically incapacitated down there, but I’m not.”

 

And then magic hands grip Emma tightly and bring her back to the surface.

 

“Thanks,” she says.

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky that your love sick pirate noticed you were missing.”

 

And Emma is just going to casually ignore that love sick part.

 

“And that he knows how to navigate Neverland,” David says, coming out of the lush jungle brushing a particularly keen vine off his shoulder and trying not to trip over the vines that wind around his feet. “I swear, this jungle is trying its best to kill us.”

 

Emma laughs at his grumpy face, and then she bends down to look Gold over again. “Still fine?”

 

He waves her away. “Yes, yes, Miss Swan. Do cease your fussing.”

 

“A little pain and suffering will do him good,” Hook says, bouncing on his feet a little as if the thought brings him joy. She resists the urge to laugh because, really, wishing pain onto other people? Not that funny.

 

“If you hadn’t found us, he’d probably be dead,” Emma says, trying to convince Hook of the gravity of Gold’s situation prior to their rescue.

 

Hook frowns. “Damn my terrible timing.”

 

“I can fix that problem for you, if you’d like. Permanently,” Gold growls, rising to his feet and facing off with Hook.

 

Regina laughs suddenly, interrupting the impending rumble, and Emma looks at her with questioning eyes. Regina smirks. “It would appear that Rumpelstiltskin owes the good Captain his life.”

 

Gold steps back a little and groans. “Wonderful. Are you quite certain I’m not dead?”

 

\---

 

“Why would we ask Gold? He  _hates_ Killian.” Emma asks, staring at Regina and trying to figure out if she’s gone crazy.

 

Regina simply rolls her eyes. “If you’ll put your mind to the task, Miss Swan, even you will remember that Rumpelstiltskin owes a life debt that has yet to be collected.”

 

“From when I inadvertently rescued him in Neverland,” Killian says, filling in Emma’s mental blank.

 

“You mean, when you rescued  _me_ in Neverland,” she corrects, giving him a bemused smile as the memory reasserts itself in her head. “I distinctly remember how put out you were that he came as part of the deal.”

 

“Ah yes, well, I was merely surprised at his vulnerable position,” Killian says, shifting from foot to foot, and Emma smiles at his barely contained disappointment, even now, that he had arrived just in the nick of time to save his worst enemy.

 

“None of that matters now,” Regina says as soon as Emma takes her eyes off Killian. “The only thing you should be concentrating on is using it to your advantage.”

 

“Right,” Emma says, and then she tilts her head. “Thanks, Regina. For everything.”

 

Regina opens her mouth like she’s going to respond but then snaps it shut. Emma tries not to smirk at having clearly rendered the evil queen speechless and tries even harder not to laugh when Regina quickly ushers her out of the house in order to it cover up.

 

\---

 

Killian looks up apprehensively at the sign that states the building they are in front of is Gold’s pawn shop. Emma waits for him to make up his mind, and he gives her a small smile in acknowledgement.

 

“This is really going to irritate him, you know,” she says, conversationally.

 

“Most likely,” Killian replies.

 

“I mean, having to help you is probably on his list of top ten things he’d like to never do ever,” Emma continues.

 

“That is also likely,” Killian agrees.

 

“I guess it is a small stab at revenge, huh?”

 

“I suppose you could look at it that way, yes,” Killian says, nodding his head.

 

“So what are you afraid of?”

 

Killian narrows his eyes at her. “Not a single thing, love. I am merely waiting for you to open the door as I am currently incapable of doing so.”

 

“Right,” she says. “Of course.”

 

And she smiles to herself as she opens the door. Really, he’s too easy.

 

\---

 

 

Belle looks up from the papers she has strewn about the counter when the bell above the entryway jingles. She smiles at Emma as she walks in, and asks, “What can I do for you today, Sheriff?”

 

“Is Gold around?” Emma asks.

 

“He’s in the back. Would you like me to fetch him?” Belle asks.

 

“Yeah, thanks.”

 

“No need to fetch, dearie. I’m here. What do you want this time, Miss Swan?”

 

Emma walks up to the counter to face Gold. “I’ve come to collect.”

 

He laughs softly. “Have you hit your head, Miss Swan?”

 

“Afraid not, Gold. You owe the man behind me your life. It’s time to pay up,” she says, tapping her fingers against the counter.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Swan,” Gold insists, a small, secret smile on his face.

 

He’s playing hard to get deliberately, and she’s never in the mood for that.

 

“Cut the crap, Gold. You’re going to agree to do what we want in the end. I’m not going to take no for an answer. So let’s just make this easy. We’ve got a spell that will bring Killian back from the brink of death, and we need blood freely given to complete our ingredient list. So roll up your sleeves; we’re taking a donation.”

 

Gold narrows his eyes, and Emma can feel the static of magic in the air. That same terrifying flicker of gold that she remembers flashes through his eyes, and Emma is worried that things are going to get ugly. She’s prepared for this possibility, but she really would have preferred for Gold to comply quietly.

 

And then everything returns to normal. Gold lifts his arm, and his fingers wrap around his cufflink. He rotates it and then pulls at the sleeve of his shirt before letting both of his hands drop to his sides. “Interesting.”

 

Emma opens her mouth to keep arguing with him because clearly he hasn’t gotten the point if he’s still screwing around with her like this, but he holds up his hand to stop her. “There’s no need for you to continue with your mediocre attempts at intimidating me into assisting you, Miss Swan. You’ll have your blood. Return here in an hour, and then,” his gaze shifts to the area behind her where Emma knows Killian is standing, “my debt will be paid in full.”

 

“Fine,” Emma says. “One hour then. Exactly.”

 

Gold’s mouth pinches together as though he’d dearly like to do her bodily harm, but he merely nods at her before returning to the back of his shop.

 

“Er, can we do anything else for you today?” Belle asks, her worried gaze still on the door Gold had retreated through for all that her voice is bright and cheerful.

 

“I hope not,” Emma says. “Thanks, Belle.”

\---

 

One hour later, on the dot, Emma walks back into the pawn shop with a brown bag clutched in her hand. All the other ingredients are inside, and once she has collected her prize from Gold, the spell will be ready to go.

 

She walks up to the counter. She doesn’t see Belle anywhere around, and the eerie silence makes her shudder. Usually the pawn shop isn’t creepy, but right now? Definitely a little on the creepy side.

 

Gold joins her at the counter, coming in from the back, and the clacking of beads against one another breaks the quiet much to Emma’s relief.

 

“I believe this is what you require,” Gold says, holding up a vial filled with red liquid.

 

“Your blood, yeah,” Emma says, reaching out to take it from his hand.

 

He pulls it back. “I never said it was my blood. But it was freely given by a man who said he would give anything for his son. I assume it will suffice?”

 

Emma’s eyes widen. “You didn’t hurt the man to get this, did you?”

 

“Don’t be crass, Miss Swan. Violence was unnecessary. He gladly gave it to me when I asked, and he is currently sitting down to dinner with his family,” Gold replies, holding out the vial toward her once more.

 

Emma reaches out and takes it from her, feeling the smooth texture of glass beneath her fingertips. “Yeah, I guess it will do then.”

 

“Indeed. We’re done here then?”

 

Emma nods and turns away. Gold’s voice stops her before she’s out of his shop entirely. “And Miss Swan? If anything goes wrong for you during this unfortunate rescue mission, please keep in mind that my shop does not hand out its secrets for free. My help will come with a steep price should you require it again.”

 

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” Emma says, glaring at him. “But thanks for the reminder.”

 

“Yes, good day,” he says dismissively, and she stomps her way out of his shop, a little miffed that she can’t really slam the door behind her.

 

\---

 

She’s standing waist deep in the ocean as the waves roll in around her, and the vial of blood is warm in her hand.

 

She looks at him, her teeth chattering as the cold air bites at her exposed skin. “How are you not soaked? Or cold for that matter?”

 

“What I can’t touch, can’t touch me,” Killian says, and Emma suddenly remembers something.

 

“Wait, you were in the water before; how did I not notice that you didn’t get wet?” she asks.

 

“Ah, perhaps you found my face far too distracting,” he says, wicked grin on his face.

 

She huffs and gives him a half-hearted glare. “That’s the type of thing someone like me should have noticed.”

 

“I have a theory about that,” he says, running his finger down his hook and doing, all in all, a very excellent job of not looking at her.

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“I think that was all my doing,” he says, and she can only just make out his words over the crash of waves against the shore behind them. “I am, more or less, a parasite. It was in my best interests that you remain...unaware that you were the only thing keeping me tied to this world.”

 

Emma rolls around the word ‘parasite’ in her head for a little bit before she replies: “If I’d had the choice,” and she sees his shoulders seize up at that, “I wouldn’t have hesitated to save you, you know that right? I’m not...angry that you’re here or that you chose me as your anchor.”

 

“And now you willingly put yourself in danger,” she starts to protest but he barrels through, “by attempting a spell that may have unpredictable repercussions all because of me.”

 

“You’re forgetting that we’re only here because you almost died saving me,” Emma says, pointing out what she thinks is obvious. He saved her. She is going to save him. And that’s all...fine. “This is a pointless argument. You almost died because you wanted to save me, and now I’m doing what I have to do because I  _want_ to save  _you_ . I care about what happens to you, alright? Now will you shut up so we can get on with this?”

 

She thinks it’s the caring part that does it, but he just nods at her, keeping his mouth closed. She looks down at the paper she has clasped in the hand not holding the vial of blood and squints to make out the hastily copied instructions. Her hands shake ever so slightly from the cold. She lets out a long breath, and then she unstops the vial of blood.

 

“Are you ready for this?” she asks because this is it. After she does this, the spell is in motion and there’s no going back. It’s all absurdly simple, actually. A few plants mixed together and smeared on her forehead, a little chant in some language she’s never heard of but that Mary Margaret was, for some reason, fluent in, and the blood thrown over the spectre that was to be brought back.

 

He gives her a sharp nod, and she starts the chant. The words feel strange in her mouth, and the wind picks up, violently tossing ocean water all around them. Emma holds onto the paper and the vial of blood tighter because she’s not losing anything else to the sea, not yet anyway. She starts shouting the words out so that the wind doesn’t rip them away before the magic that has added to the whirlwind around them can catch them.

 

She could have sworn that moments ago the sun was out. It had been weak, cold, wintery light, but it had been sunlight all the same. Now, though, darkness surrounds them. It’s the same peculiar bottom-of-the-sea glow that she remembers from Ursula’s undersea hideout, and she realizes that the sea has come up to meet them. It crashes overhead as she finishes the chant, and she looks at Killian through the hair that whips wildly around her face.

 

“Do it,” he yells over the din, and she throws the vial of blood over him. There is a sudden hush, and she pushes the wet hair sticking to her face out of the way as she looks for him.

 

A body bobs on the sea a little ways out from where they were standing, and Emma dives into the shockingly cold water, swimming her way toward it.

 

_Please be alive_ , she thinks.  _Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we've one more chapter to go. How exciting! I hope this makes the beginning of the hiatus a little easier for you all, and thank you, as always, for reading. And an extra special thank you to my beta, Shannen. You are a star!


End file.
